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Lovell’5 riodern Novelists’ Series 




TO BEDLAM 

AND 

BACK AGAIN 

BY 

Frank Houghton 


NEW YORK 

LOVELL BROTHERS & COMPANY 

142, 144, 146 AND 148 Worth Street 


6 


KRAIk 

llOlKaiTON 


% 


To 

Bedlam 

and 

Back 

Again 


¥ 


lovell’e '* 
/Ibodern : 
flov>eU0t0' ■ 
Scrteg. 




TO BEDLAM 

AND BACK AGAIN 


AND 


OTHER STORIES 



FRANK HOUGHTON 



142 AND 144 Worth Street 





A 


'•-I 



;iP 


Copyrighted by 
FRANK HOUGHTON 
1893. 


CONTENTS. 


I PAGE. 

? I. The Inheritance of the Reverend Algernon North 5 

^ 11 . The New Boss 23 

j III. A True Chronicle of the Opiongo 63 

IV. To Bedlam and Back Again 105 




THE INHERITANCE OF 
THE REVEREND ALGERNON NORTH. 

In the picturesquely situated little village of 
Worthing occurred a certain event, or rather chain 
of events, which culminated so surprisingly, as to 
cause much talk and excitement among the inhab- 
itants. 

Worthing is a peaceful, sleepy little village with a 
population of about one thousand sleepy inhabitants. 
On the morning of the 3d of August, 1885, an ex- 
cited crowd gathered about the door of old Healy’s 
hotel. Across the road and opposite Healy’s is the 
office of the village attorney, Mr. John Nesbitt, a 
pale-faced, bright-eyed, delicate looking little man 
of about thirty-five years of age. While the crowd 
talked and gesticulated, Mr. Nesbitt sat at his win- 
dow, and spliced a fishing-rod. Business that morn- 
ing, to use his own term, “ was slack. ” With him it 
generally “was slack,” still he managed to make 
both ends meet, and it was a conundrum how he 
did so, — but that’s neither here nor there. He 
glanced across the road, muttered “ Another drunk I 
suppose,” and continued his splicing. Five minutes 
elapsed, he finished a joint, and looked out again. 


6 


THE INHERITANCE OF 


Old Ben Hazleton was speaking, the rest looked 
awed, and listened. John Nesbitt laid his rod aside, 
picked his hat from the floor, where it was generally 
hung, covered his sparse locks with it and hastened 
across the road. 

Ben Hazleton finished speaking ere the attorney 
arrived, the crowd chewed tobacco, smoked, and ex- 
pectorated in solemn silence, several slunk into the 
bar, and in choked accents requested three fingers 
o’ gin. 

]\Ir. Nesbitt felt curious. 

“What’s up,” he inquired of a cadaverous look- 
ing individual in a wide-awake. 

“The parson’s niece,” he replied in a hushed 
tone. 

‘ ‘ What of her .? ” 

“Murdered — found dead back o’ the big clearin’, 
throat cut, an’ her little hands a’ full o’ flowers.” 

Mr. John Nesbitt was horrified, and expressed 
himself accordingly. The person who committed 
the dastardly deed was not discovered, at least not 
then. 

That was the first event in the chain. 

Gradually the village of Worthing subsided into 
its normal state of stagnation. 

The second event was much the same. It occurred 
two years later, — curiously enough, on the same day 
of the same month. This time the victim was a boy, 
— his throat too was cut. 

Strenuous but unavailing efforts were made to dis- 
cover the author of the crimes. The village was in 


THE REVEREND ALGERNON NORTH. 


7 


a panic. The old women gossiped, dreamt dreams, 
saw visions, “were tuk with the shakes,” and gener- 
ally behaved as uneducated, superstitious, elderly 
females do under such circumstances. The Rev. 
Algernon North, a giant in stature, a trained athlete, 
and a double first of Oxford, preached a wonderful 
sermon on the sacredness of human life and the aw- 
ful and terrible crime of taking it, so replete with 
classical allusion, that in all likelihood not a mem- 
ber of his congregation could appreciate it, excepting, 
possibly, the attorney ; but as luck would have it, he 
was absent fishing, so that it was lost to him. 

And now for the third event, — which is the event. 

At the close of a warm day in July, in the year 
1888, Mr. John Nesbitt sat in his office chewing a 
lead pencil, and with bent brows gazing fixedly on 
a sheet of paper covered with hastily scrawled 
memoranda and figures. The desk before him, in- 
stead of the law books and other insignia of an at- 
torney one might expect to see there, was covered 
with cartridges, odd joints of fishing-rods, fly-books, 
tobacco pipes, “ Mr. Sponge’s Sporting Tour ” in two 
volumes, and Izaak Walton’s “Complete Angler.” 
On a sheet of cork was carefully pinned a Lunar 
moth, a Cecropia, and one of those pretty brown 
butterflies known as “ a morning cloak.” In an old 
pickle bottle, containing spirits of wine, was an ex- 
cellent specimen of the common garter snake in the 
act of swallowing a toad, the hind legs of which 
projected from its mouth. Behind the desk lay in- 


8 


THE INHERITANCE OF 


discriminately piled a dozen or so volumes on law, 

• — his library. 

On that day of July, as on that day of August 
above mentioned, business “was slack,” — was it 
any wonder? 

The sheet of paper on which Mr. Nesbitt's atten- 
tion was fixed, contained an accurate account of his 
professional earnings during the two last months of 
May and June, amounting in all to $73. 12, of which 
$20.00 was still owing and likely to be for some 
time, for his debtor had died insolvent the week be- 
fore. It was certainly not encouraging ; his profes- 
sional soul was filled with a professional hunger. 
He sighed, yawned, and finally laid down his pen- 
cil. Fortunately for iNIr. Nesbitt he resembled in 
one respect Mr. Longfellow’s village blacksmith, — 
“he owed not any man.” 

Besides an abhorrence of debt, a limited library, and 
the above mentioned little etceteras, he possessed 
three personal qualities, namely, a very soft voice, 
astonishing presence of mind, and splendid cour- 
age ; and, as is generally the case with such charac- 
ters, had not the remotest idea that he possessed any 
of the three. In fact, he looked upon himself as the 
most timid man alive ; the very flutter of a petticoat 
covered him with confusion, while the mere thought 
of being left alone in a room with one of the fair sex, 
overpowered him with a dismay pitiable to witness. 
After this it will perhaps be needless to add that Mr. 
John Nesbitt was a bachelor, with fair chances of 
remaining one. 


THE REVEREND ALGERNON ADR TH. 


9 


]\Ir. Nesbitt leant back in his chair, and for the 
space of at least ten seconds contemplated the ceil- 
ing ; then he spoke. 

“One of two things is clear,” he said, “either I 
do not suit the profession of law, or the profession 
does not suit the district.” 

His eyes wandered from the ceiling and over the 
table before him, rested on the “Complete Angler,” 
and brightened 

“ I will follow that charming philosopher's foot- 
steps,” he exclaimed, “ and go fishing. ” 

There came a loud knocking at the door. 

“Thomas, I suppose,” he murmured softly, add- 
ing in a louder tone, “come in.” 

Enter a large, black-bearded, hearty looking man 
clad in home-spun. 

“ Ah, Tom, my boy, knew it was you ; glad to see 
you, have a pipe.” 

“ Thank you. ” Thomas filled one and seated 
himself. 

“ And how are you ? — haven’t seen you for a week 
of Sundays. ” 

“ Well,” Thomas lighted his pipe, stretched his 
long legs out, and added, “ How’s law ? ” 

“ Don’t mention it, dear boy.” 

The large arrival eyed his companion. 

“ John,” he said, “ you should chuck it.” 

“ I mean to, for a day or two,” Nesbitt laughed. 

Thomas grunted. 

And you, my friend,” continued Nesbitt, “will 


lO 


THE INHERITANCE OF 


chuck the time-honored occupation of husbandry, 
and we shall go a-fishing.” 

To make a long story short the following afternoon 
away they went. Now the village of Worthing is 
built on the banks of the South River, about three 
miles from its junction with the Ottawa, at which 
point IMr. Nesbitt and Thomas made their camp for 
the night. 

Shortly after sunset the latter, leaving his friend 
busily employed washing up the dishes, started 
off in his canoe, to set some night-lines. Twenty 
minutes passed, and Nesbitt, his work finished, sat 
puffing an old T. D. and gazing abstractedly into 
the camp fire. 

There came a sound of a canoe, or boat, grounding 
on the shore. 

“ That old noodle Thomas has forgotten some- 
thing, I suppose.” Nesbitt smiled placidly. 

A moment later, a tall figure showed black against 
the evening sky, it approached the camp fire, and the 
flames lit up the face. Mr. John Nesbitt rose to his 
feet, with an exclamation of surprise, for, instead of 
his friend, he recognized the Rev. Algernon North. 

“ Mr. North ! ” he exclaimed, “ this is a pleasant 
surprise. ” 

Mr. Nesbitt’s greeting was hearty. Though he 
seldom went to church, preferring to spend his Sun- 
days in the open air, he admired and liked the stal- 
wart young rector, as every one did in the parish. 

The Rev Mr. North seemed to be in a state of sup- 
pressed excitement, his eyes looked big and unnatu- 


THE REVEREND ALGERNON NORTH. 


1 1 

rally bright in the firelight ; his companion’s remarks 
he answered at random. He fidgeted about for a 
few minutes, then suddenly sat down before the fire 
and began speaking. 

“ Opportunity, temptation, and ungoverncd will- 
power,” he said, “ lead a man into the performance 
of deeds shocking in the extreme, that is to men 
whose minds are warped by the conventionalities of 
the times ; why is it we can look with calmness 
upon the death-struggles of a deer, for instance, 
while our hearts are torn, our eyes dimmed by the 
contemplation of one of our fellow-creatures dying. 
Is not a deer as much one of God’s creatures as you 
or I? — did not the same loving care watch over 
both.? — I ask you, Mr. Nesbitt, why this is.? ” 

“ Really, Mr. North, I am afraid I have never gone 
sufficiently into the subject, to enable me to give you 
a satisfactory answer. ” Nesbitt had not come out 
camping to be drawn into an argument on moral 
philosophy ; discussion, curiously enough, though a 
lawyer, he detested, the fact being that he was lazy. 

The clergyman rested his chin upon his hand, and 
gazed dreamily into the fire: to all outward appear- 
ance his excitement had passed away. 

“ Ah, that is the way,”hesaid, as though speaking 
to himself, “ realities fail to interest, what is vital has 
no signification.” Then he looked curiously at his 
companion," I wonder if what I am going to tell 
you will chain your attention .? ” 

Nesbitt murmured something polite, and with dif- 
ficulty suppressed a yawn. 


12 


THE INHERITANCE OF 


“ In the eyes of the law I am he hesi- 

tated. 

Nesbitt, in the act of poking the fire, paused, and 
glanced at the speaker, whose manner underwent a 
change. He became the clergyman all of a sudden, 
and spoke as though he were going through the Lit- 
any. 

“ It pleased God to take my dear niece from me, 
it pleased God to make me his humble instrument,” 
the flames leaped up and lighted his face, the expres- 
sion on it was sly, — fanatically cruel, — cunning, — 
horribly cunning ! 

“ What ! ” Nesbitt was all attention now, sit- 
ting bolt upright. 

The Rev. Algernon raised his hand. 

“ A moment, my dear sir, I have not yet finished ! ” 
his tones were scriptural as ever, — “ s/te had a mole 
on her neck." 

Nesbitt instinctively raised his hand to his own, 
his companion saw the action, and smiled. 

“ It is too late,” he said, then he continued, “She 
was doomed, poor girl. I could not stand it, on three 
separate occasions I entreated her to cover it, I be- 
sought her to wear something about her throat. I 
would have begged her on my bended knees, but 
that was impossible; how could I, a minister of God, 
kneel to a woman ? There is a respect due to the 
cloth, sir, which we must ever remember on the peril 
of our souls. I even went so far as to expend ten 
shillings and sixpence halfpenny on a silk handker- 
chief, which I presented to her, to cover that abomi- 


THE REVEREND ALGERNON NORTH. 


13. 

nable mole. What more could I do, what more could 
any man do.? I appeal to you, Mr. Nesbitt.” 

“Nothing-, sir, nothing.” Nesbitt’s voice was 
peculiarly low, — his face was pale, — he still held his 
pipe between his lips, but it had gone out. 

“Then that fatal 3d of August came ; she brought 
me a loaf of home-made bread from her mother’s in 
the morning. I walked with her to the garden gate, 
and kissed her good-bye there.” 

“Kissed her good-bye!” The repetition came 
from Nesbitt’s white lips, ere he was well aware of 
his utterance. 

“And what if I did.? I was her uncle, a minister 
of God, one of the great army.” 

Nesbitt for a moment forgot the horror of the sit- 
uation ; scorn of the man before him drove all 
thought of self for the instant away ; mechanically 
he took his pipe from his mouth. 

“ Iscariot kissed our Saviour,” he murmured. 

The Rev. Algernon sprang to his feet and com- 
menced pacing up and down. Nesbitt watched 
him like a cat. He came to a halt before him. 

“Where is the parallel ? ” he exclaimed excitedly. 
“For heaven’s sake, man, be just and listen.” 

Nesbitt affected unconcern. 

“I’m sick of the subject,” he said, “ let us change 
it,” and he prayed God that Tom would only return. 
The man before him stamped his foot. 

“Sir, I demand your attention.” 

Nesbitt shrugged his shoulders. 


u 


THE INHERITANCE OF 


“As you will,” he said. The Rev. Algernon con- 
tinued : 

“ As I told you, I kissed her at the gate, she turned 
away smiling. I saw the mole on her white neck, 
and almost shrieked. Then I rushed into my study, 
locked myself in, and wrestled with my temptation, 
even as Jacob wrestled with the angel. I called to 
mind all the holy men who had lived and conquered 
self. Still an irresistible impulse seemed urging me 
to follow. I wept scalding tears. I threw myself 
on my knees, and called on God in His mercy to hold 
me. My prayers, my tears, seemed unavailing. In 
an agony of mind I turned to my Bible for succour. I 
opened it and read : 

“ ‘ And hesaid. Take now thy son, thine only son 
Isaac whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land 
of Moriah : and offer him there for a burnt offering 
upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of.’ 

“Then a great calm fell upon me. I knew that it 
was God’s will. I took a sharp knife from a drawer 
in my desk, hid it in my sleeve, and followed.” 

Nesbitt shuddered. “I beg that you will spare 
me the details,” he exclaimed. 

The clergyman bowed with a gesture of assent. 

“They are quite unnecessary,” he said ; then he 
turned to Nesbitt with an air of well-bred courtesy, 
“ I am not boring you, I hope ? ” 

“Not at all, sir, not at all.” The hideous farce of 
such politeness did not strike him at the time. The 
Rev. Algernon continued : 

“Then, two ye^irs followed. Every man, woman 


THE REVEREND ALGERNON NORTH. 15 

and child I met in that time — I glanced first at their 
throat. I began to think that I would not be called 
upon again. I was wrong, however. On the thir- 
teenth day of July, 1887, I was coming home from 
the Bryant farm by the path through the fields ; I had 
reached that clump of butternuts by the ruined 
cottage, — I dare say you know the place } ” 

“ Perfectly,” Nesbitt replied. 

“On the highest limb of one of the tallest trees a 
squirrel sat chattering excitedly. I soon discovered 
the cause of its alarm. Beneath the tree that young 
rascal, Joe Andrews, stood with one of those ob- 
noxious weapons, a catapult, taking pot shots at it. 
I chid the boy, expressing my horror at such wanton 
cruelty, fie seemed touched by my words, and when 
I had finished speaking, turned and walked hurriedly 
away. As he did so I noticed, this time with a 
sacred joy, a brown mole on the side of his neck. 
On account of his extreme youth, I felt that he was 
entitled to a warning. I hastened after him. ‘Joe,’ 
I said, when I had reached his side, ‘ life is sweet, 
you should keep your throat covered.’ 

“‘Sir,’ he said, looking at me with some slight 
astonishment, ‘I have never had a sore throat in my 
life ; the boys would all laugh at me if I went about 
with red flannel round my neck in July.’ To which 
I replied, ‘ ’An ounce of prevention, my dear young 
friend, is infinitely better than a pound of cure ; red 
flannel is not necessary, white will answer the pur- 
pose equally well. Be a good lad, and do as I advise. ’ 
I then bid him good-day and continued on along the 


16 


THE INHERITANCE OE 


path to the village. Needless to say, my advice 
was not taken ; good advice seldom is. I met him 
twice again before the 3d of August. On that day 
I saw him enter the maple wood with his school 
books in a little bag on his back. I was standing 
at the door of my church at the time. I had been 
pruning my apple-trees all morning; my pruning 
knife was in my pocket. I felt that the hour of 
sacrifice had come, and followed him with a religious 
joy impossible to describe. — The rest you know.” 

Nesbitt nodded. 

His companion stirred the fire, and heaped more 
wood upon it. Low in the western sky the crescent 
of a new moon hung like white foam upon a calm 
deep sea. A gentle 'breeze came from the river, 
rustling the willows, and fanning the leaping flames. 
The weird, lonely cry of a whip-poor-will broke the 
silence. It was a heavenly night, a night to think 
out great thoughts, to dream of love, and happiness, 
and hope fulfilled. How beautiful was life, how 
beautiful the earth, Nesbitt fully realized for the first 
time as he sat in that little circle of light, straining 
his ears to the utmost, listening in vain for the re- 
turning dip of his friend’s paddle. 

The clergyman stood before him with a rapt ex- 
pression in his eyes, gazing into space ; his lips 
moved. 

“ On such a night as this,” he exclaimed, with all 
a fanatic’s fervor, “I should long to lay down my 
earthly burden and be at rest. God, in His infinite 
love, is very gracious. My friend, I envy you.” 


THE RE i^EREHD ALGERNON NOR TIL \ 7 

Nesbitt hardly heard the words, he was trying to 
pray ; he turned up his coat-collar. 

The clergyman noted the action, and smiled 
gravely. 

“Too late, too late, my dear friend. Why hide the 
sacrificial sign ? You ought rather to rejoice in it, — 
God is good ! ” 

“Am I not entitled to a warning too.?” Nesbitt 
murmured. “ Is the benefit of red flannel to be de- 
nied me .? — ‘ Life is sweet.’ ” 

The Rev. Algernon shook his head ; for a few 
minutes he was silent ; then, seating himself, he be- 
gan again to speak : 

“On the 24th day of September, 1790, — I have an 
excellent head for dates, — my great-grandfather, the 
Rev. Charles Algernon North, died in a lunatic asylum 
in England. By physicians he was declared insane 
— a homicidal maniac. He was no more mad than I 
am, he was simply God’s special instrument, — as I 
am, — and as such he sacrificed three persons — an old 
lady who had no earthly reason to wish her useless 
existence prolonged, a fat and dishonest butler, and 
a boy aged four years. His first sacrifice he per- 
formed at the close of his thirtieth year. He left one 
son, Percival Algernon North, who, on the completion 
of his Oxford career, was admitted into the ministry. 
Through the influence of the Duke of Norfolk he re- 
ceived an excellent living in Warwickshire, and in 
his twenty-fifth year married Katharine Montague, 
the daughter of a poor Suffolk baronet. In his 
twenty-sixth year, my father was born. In his 
2 


i8 


THE INHERITANCE OF 


thirtieth, my grandfather, like his father before him, 
was seized with a religious enthusiasm ; he recog- 
nized in himself the special instrument of the Al- 
mighty, and by divine guidance sacrificed his cook. 
He, too, several years afterwards was declared in- 
sane, and died in his forty-second year in a London 
asylum. I now come to my own father. He, through 
the death of a relative, came into a small property in 
Kent ; in his twenty-third year he married, and ten 
days after my birth, in his thirty-fourth year, was 
thrown from his horse and killed. 

“ In 1882, as you know, I, an ordained clergyman, 
took charge of this parish ; three years later, in my 
thirtieth year, a change came over me, enthusiasm 
took possession of me ; I longed to do something for 
the Creator of all things, who had done so much for 
me. One evening in the beginning of June, as I sat 
in my study, my dear niece came in, why I know 
not. I glanced at her throat, and noticed for the first 
time the little brown mole upon it. The rest you 
know. Then — then I recognized the divine good- 
ness of God ; then I knew that to me had descended 
that glorious inheritance. Oh, Mr. Nesbitt, what 
poor worms we are ! how little we deserve the great 
blessings showered upon us with so prodigal a hand ! ” 
He rose to his feet with a strange and terrible fire in 
his eyes, — the fire of madness, — and stretched out his 
hand. Something bright which he held caught the 
light from the moon. It was a knife! Nesbitt 
shuddered. 

“I, an unworthy wretch like myself,” — his voice 


THE REVEREND ALGERNON NORTH. 


19 


grew shrill and wild, — “ am ordained His high priest ! 
Think, I beseech you, think of Abraham and his 
willing son ; look upon me as Abraham ; think, oh 
think of the divine graciousness of God in having 
chosen you as an offering to His loving mercy ! ” 

He paused. For a few moments there was silence. 
Nesbitt had risen to his feet, his eyes were ri vetted 
on those of the madman before him, — a blessed 
sound smote his throbbing senses. 

The dip of a paddle ! 

The clergyman spoke again. 

“ What, thrice blessed among mankind, have you 
to live for ? ” 

Possibly Nesbitt’s reply wasweak,he hardly knew 
what he said, he was listening to that blessed sound. 

“There — there is fishing in the summer,” he said 
in his soft voice, “and — and fair snipe-shooting in 
the autumn. ” 

He heard the grating of a canoe on the sand, as 
he finished speaking ; his friend could not be more 
than thirty paces distant. The Rev. Algernon 
North heard nothing, — so intense was his frantic 
fervour. 

“The hour has come,” he cried in the same shrill 
tones, paying no heed to Nesbitt’s reply, “thank God 
for His many blessings.” 

Quick as a flash Nesbitt sprang back. 

“Help, Tom, help, for God’s sake ! ” he shouted. 

But he was not quick enough : the madman was 
upon him, like a cat upon a bird, and over they went 
together. 


20 


THE INHERITANCE OE 


Crash ! The firelight, the whirling stars, the 
awful eyes burning into his, faded on the instant. 

“Where am I.?” It was Nesbitt who spoke. 
Tom was bending over him, with a look of anxiety 
on his rough, bearded face. Nesbitt thought it the 
most beautiful he had ever looked upon. 

“You’re all right, John, old fellow; had a pretty 
close call, though.” He bathed his head with cool 
water. 

In a few minutes Nesbitt sat up, none the worse 
except for a sore head where it had come in contact 
with a stone. Ten feet away lay the Rev. Algernon 
North bound hand and foot, snarling like a dog. 

In the scuffle he had dropped his knife. At Nes- 
bitt’s cry for help his friend had flown to his assist- 
ance, to find him prone upon his back, motionless, 
with a man sitting on his chest, groping about on 
the ground for something. A smashing blow from 
the paddle which Tom carried, and the tables were 
turned : the madman lay senseless beside his in- 
tended victim. 

The little village of Worthing was all agog next 
day. Their rector was brought home, tied up like a 
turkey. Conversation flourished for a fortnight, 
then a new shepherd took charge of the flock ; he 
was not a double first of Oxford, but he was, com- 
paratively speaking, sane. Mr. Nesbitt had the 
sacrificial sign removed from his neck by the village 
surgeon. He still endeavors to live by the practice 
of his profession, and he is still an enthusiastic dis- 


THE REVEREND ALGERNON NORTH. 


21 


ciple of Izaak Walton. In the autumn he has fair 
snipe-shootingf. 

On the tenth day of June, of the year 1892, the 
Rev. Algernon North, with his inheritance, died in 
a madhouse. 





ri 



THE NEW BOSS. 


Carson was the new foreman ; he took charge of 
Flanigan’s gang, after Flanigan had been scattered 
over an acre or two, trying to tamp a load of black 
powder with a steel drill, and he ran that cut in a 
way that came pretty near breaking down the 
health of all hands. 

The “ boys ” thought he was soft when he first 
came, because he was civil and quiet-spoken and 
wasn’t “ eternally ripping round and raising particu- 
lar hell,” as Flanigan had been so fond of doing; 
but they got rid of that idea before long. Then they 
got disgusted and tried to shirk, and cursed the 
teams, and Nippers, and the wide, wide world, and 
speculated as to whether Carson took them for dogs 
or “Niggers,” and would like him to understand 
that they were neither ; but they didn’t tell him so. 
Then they settled down to work. 

As a rule, green hands have to show of what metal 
they are made, when they attempt to “ boss” a gang 
of roughs. They have to establish their footing. 
Carson was no exception to the rule : he established 
his with a pick-handle, and established it so firmly 
that no one ever again thought of questioning his 
capability of maintaining it. 


24 


THE NEW BOSS. 


His men were decidedly mystified with regard to 
him ; they discussed him from every possible stand- 
point— and a good many impossible ones. 

The walking-boss remarked to the section engineer 
in the hearing of Nippers, that there was ‘ ‘ plenty of 
sand on his neck” ; but he did not explain the term, 
though, judging from the expression of his eye, 
which was happy at the time, it is likely a compli- 
ment was intended. 

The other foremen on the division hated him 
cordially — they had reason. Where they averaged 
a yard and three-quarters of rock-excavation per 
man a day — assisted largely by profanity — he 
averaged two, without assistance of the above-men- 
tioned explosive. In fact, they took it so deeply to 
heart that one fine Sunday morning a deputation of 
one — a very large one — waited on him at his camp, 
and discussed rock-excavation in a manner not 
treated of by Mr. Wellington, IMr. John C. Trau- 
twine or any other leading light, waxed abusive 
rather than scientific, and withdrew hurriedly, 
followed three feet from the door of Carson’s shanty 
by Carson’s boot, and a rapturous round of applause 
from Carson’s gang. No further deputation appeared, 
they contented themselves with fervent prayers that 
he would follow Flanigan’s lead and “ help manure 
the country.” 

Then the gang boomed him ! 

The following Friday, Nippers ran foul of a 
choleric German, who resented the familiarity with 
so heavy a hand that it is altogether likely had 


THE NEW BOSS. 


25 


Nippers’ mamma seen him afterwards she would 
not have recognized her boy. It was certainly 
brutal. Nippers was twelve years of age, and 
delicate. The German was three times as old, and 
diabolically healthy. 

Unfortunately for the alien, Carson appeared at 
the close of the performance, and in five minutes 
sent him upon his way with a hungry longing for 
his fatherland, and a distaste for railroad construction 
hitherto unknown. 

Nippers worshiped his avenger from that day. 

Then the gang boomed Nippers. They said he 
was “a gritty little pup,” and cursed the German 
with a brimstone magnificence. 

Carson, by the way, was a tall fair man, with gray- 
blue eyes, and a remarkably determined chin. Ex- 
cepting to give an order, he seldom or never 
addressed his men. Where he came from, or who 
he was, nobody knew, and there was an indescrib- 
able something about him that deterred the in- 
quisitive from asking, though it was reported that 
the walking-boss had put a leading question, when 
by way of reply Carson had merely looked at him 
and asked for a match, that his questioner grinned, 
handed him one, and softly murmuring, “Well, I’ll 
be damned,” rode on. 

The section engineer, too, noticed Carson, and was 
puzzled by his appearance and manners, — for it is a 
little out of the common to discover a man in 
charge of a rock-cutting with the speech and appear- 
ance of a gentleman, — questioned his rodman, a 


26 


THE NEW BOSS. 


young man fresh from college who, as is generally 
the case with that class, was too deeply absorbed in 
the marvellous working of his own inner conscious- 
ness to notice any outside thing or person, and in 
consequence could give but little help in solving the 
mystery. 

The Line Doctor was the next man whom Carson 
astonished. The doctor was a little bright-eyed in- 
dividual, with a weakness for botany, and a genius 
for losing his way. Between twelve and one o’clock 
on a certain Wednesday, Carson heard a distant and 
lugubrious hallooing, then several pistol shots, then 
more hallooing. The sounds came from the woods 
to the north of the cutting, half a mile or so away, 
so he walked in the direction a hundred yards, and 
shouted : “ Hullo there ! ” in a voice that shook the 
poplar leaves. 

“ Hullo — hi — help ! ” came in answering wail. 

Carson started in the direction at a run, clearing 
fallen timber like a cariboo, and in fifteen minutes 
sighted the doctor, seated on a fallen log, with his 
hat beside him, his revolver in one hand, and a rare 
species of fern held tenderly in the other. 

“Sir, ’’said the doctor, pocketing his revolver, with 
a fond glance at the fern, “ I am lost.” 

Carson grunted. 

“ Hopelessly lost,” reiterated the doctor. 

“The Line is barely half a mile from here,” said 
Carson. 

“ And supposing it were fifty miles from here, sir, 
my anxiety of a few moments back, with regard to 


THE NEW BOSS. 


27 


my safety, is more than compensated. I have found 
this ! ” holding up the fern, “a very rare species; I 
am positively doubtful of its name.” 

Carson looked at it, smiled, named it. 

“ What I ” shouted the doctor. 

Carson repeated what he had said. 

“ You’re the foreman at No 3 Camp ? ” gasped the 
doctor. 

Carson nodded, and, pulling out his pipe, began 
leisurely to fill it. 

“ God bless my soul ! ” exclaimed the doctor, 
staring at Carson in wide-eyed astonishment, “you 
a botanist ? ” 

Carson shrugged his shoulders. 

“ I must be getting back to work, the dinner 
hour’s up,” he said. 

The doctor follow him, flabbergasted. 

Shortly after this ‘ ‘ things ” — to use a rail wayism, — 
became interesting. A priest called at the shanty. 
He looked pious, — oh, very pious. Suspended by a 
short strap from his shoulder hung a prodigious 
valise or satchel, which he was pleased to inform 
Carson merely contained “the bread of life,” in the 
form of hymn-books, prayer-books, and tracts, — the 
latter sulphurous. The tracts he handed about 
among the men, giving one to Carson with approp- 
riate words, and upward glance, savoring somewhat 
of Kingdom Come. 

Carson watched him curiously for a few moments, 
then, with the tract in his hand, withdrew into the 
shanty, where he tore a strip from it for a spill with 


28 THE NEW BOSS. 

with which to light his pipe, thrust it into the fire, 
where it burst so suddenly into a blaze as to attract 
his attention. He examined what remained ; it was 
damp ; he smelt it, whistled, called Nippers. 

“ Smell it,” he said. Nippers did so, looked up 
interrogatively. 

“ It’s from the priest, — Father McCool,” said 
Carson. 

“ Gum ! " ejaculated Nippers, “ It must be leakin’ 
its ” 

“ Shut up ! ” said Carson. 

Nippers did so — like a mouse-trap. 

“ Nippers,” said Carson, “could you follow the 
Father and find out where he will stay to-night? ” 

“ Could I ? ” said Nippers with prodigious scorn, 
and stood upon his toes. 

“ Without letting the Father know you’re watch- 
ing him ? ” 

“ Guess so.” 

“ And come back and tell me ? ” 

“ Easy’s rollin’ off a log.” 

“ Then go and do it.” 

Away went Nippers with a swelling breast. 

Carson sat down and smoked his pipe. Half an 
hour passed away. Bill Scully came in, — informed 
Carson that Father McCool was going to hold mass, 
intimated the “ hankerin’, ” his soul felt after “ spiri- 
tool” comfort, and “ guessed he’d go if Carson hadn’t 
no objections. ” He smiled sweetly, he had no object- 
ions. Sam O’Rork, Cisco Jimmy, Black George, and 
Sandy Mack came in : they too had discovered the 


THE NEW BOSS. 


29 


same “hankerin,” Carson’s smile grew sweeter — 
very much sweeter ; they might all go, “Confession 
is good for the soul.” Accordingly, away they all 
went. Carson rose to his feet, knocked the ashes out 
of his pipe, and started for Bisco. Arrived there he 
got sworn in as a special constable and returned. 
The smile still lingered about his lips ; his frame of 
mind might be described as heavenly. 

At seven o’clock that evening enter Nippers. His 
air was mystery itself ; success sat upon his brow. 

“ Well ? ” said Carson. 

“Nailed the sucker,” replied Nippers, with pardon- 
able pride. 

“ Indeed ! ” Carson looked af him. 

“ At the ole shack, — d’ye mind the cross-layin’ ? ” 

Carson nodded. 

“ Well t’other end o’it back o’ the clearin, where 
they was takin', square timber out last winter, — ye 
mind the ole skidway ? ” 

“Yes." 

“ His nibs was stanin’ at it, an’ all ban’s round.” 

“ Surely not the Italians "i ” 

Nippers shook his head. 

‘ ‘ At prayers ? ” 

“Prayers ! ” Nippers started. 

Carson took his pipe from his mouth and laughed. 

“ Now go to the cook, and tell him I sent you for 
your grub.” 

Towards midnight the men returned — gloriously 
drunk ! 

At four o’clock the following morning Carson sud- 


30 


nJE AEW BOSS. 


denly sat up in bed. “ By the lord Harry ! it is he ! ” 
he exclaimed. Then he rose, dressed himself by the 
light of a tallow dip, put a 38-calibre Smith-and Wes- 
son into his pocket, noiselessly raised the latch of 
the shanty door, and passed out into the starlight. 

At six he returned for his breakfast ; he appeared 
dissatisfied. The men straggled in one by one ; they 
did not look as though mass had entirely agreed 
with them. 

That morning Carson spoke again to Nippers. 

“The bird has flown,” he said. 

“Sir ! ” 

“His holiness has taken his departure, — Father 
McCool’s gone.” 

“Gone } ” Nippers looked blank. 

“Yes, I was at the shanty by a quarter to five, — 
it was empty.” 

“ Holy Doodle ! ” ejaculated Nippers, “ it do beat 
the band.” 


THE NEW BOSS. 


31 


11 . 

Three evenings, sometimes four, and every Sunday 
afternoon in the week, Carson would walk away in 
the direction of Bisco, and not return till late at night. 
The gang thought nothing of this : they put it down 
to a “hankerin’ after solitood.” Nippers did, how- 
ever, and pondered. Ever since the German es- 
capade he had established himself as Carson’s faith- 
ful retainer. In the morning and evening he brought 
him water for his daily ablutions ; every three or 
four days he spread fresh balsam brush on his bed : 
at “ dinner hour” he made toast for him. Nippers’ 
toast was perfection, — done with a birch fork over 
glowing coals, crisp, broAvn, so that it crackled nicely 
between the teeth, neither too much nor too little. 
(To make toast as it should be made is a nice art. ) As 
a rule, Carson seemed oblivious of these little atten- 
tions, Occasionally, he thanked him with a smile, 
then Nippers was supremely happy, and for the 
remainder of the day would wake the echoes of that 
desolate country with rollicking railroad ditties, at 
the full pitch of his boyish treble, as he carried the 
drills to and fro between the blacksmith’s and the 
cutting. In his opinion there never had been such 
another as Carson. 

One evening Nippers made a discovery. He had 


THE NEW BOSS. 


32 

been sent to Bisco to buy a monkey-wrench ; there 
he met a youth of his own age whom he knew. 
There was mutual joy at the meeting. Nippers 
eulogized the “new boss” in a rippling stream of 
variegated profanity, and treated the youth to ‘ ‘ black- 
strap,” who responded with dismal murmurings at 
his own hard luck, “ never to strike no soft snap.” 

The afternoon passed all too quickly away, and 
before Nippers was aware of the fact, much to his 
horror, the sun had set. Bidding his friend a hasty 
farewell, he took a short cut over a hill by a rough 
trail, which shortened the distance to camp half 
a mile. 

The way was lonely, the shadows between the 
jack-pines very black, the tall rampikes looked gaunt 
and spectral in the fading light of evening. Hungry 
bears wandered amongst those solitudes. Nippers 
was an imaginative youth ; he felt, to use his own 
expression “mighty skeery.” Every rustle in the 
dead leaves, as some wood-mouse scurried over 
them, set his heart thumping against his ribs. He 
hurried silently along, peering into the gathering 
gloom, restrained only by a boyish pride from taking 
to his heels and running. He had gone about half 
the distance, and was just turning a sharp bend in 
the trail, when the sound of some one speaking, 
not more than twenty feet distant, brought him to 
an abrupt halt. It was a woman’s voice. The tones 
were low, passionately tender, but clear to Nippers’ 
thrilling senses as a bell. Such a voice he had 
never heard before. He listened spellbound. 


THE NEW BOSS. 


33 


“Dearest, clearest, you must not,” came the words. 
“ Sweetest, I entreat, — Edward, listen to me. As 
surely as there is a God in heaven, as surely as you 
love me, — if you do love me.? — if this passion is 
love .? — you will be sorry — sorry to your dying day. 
Edward, I implore, — see, I go upon my knees. 
Sweetest, I beg — you swore you loved me — can you 
love me and refuse me.? Oh — oh — oh ! ” She was 
weeping now. Nippers was in an agony. 

“ Come, come, my lovely Kate, don’t be foolish, — 
get up, my angel, — do you think that I can’t take 
care of myself, you silly girl .? ” 

Nippers almost jumped out of his skin ! He knew 
that voice. He started so violently as to snap a dry 
branch on which he was standing. 

“Nippers ! ” It was Carson who spoke. “What 
on earth are you doing here .? ” Nippers felt inclined 
to blubber; he longed to die. 

“Oh, please, sir, I — I went to Bisco fora — a — 
monkey — a monkey-wrench,” he stammered balanc- 
ing himself first on one leg, then on the other. He 
stole a frightened glance at the boss, who — Nippers 
wondered if he could be dreaming — was watching 
him with a most decided suspicion of a smile. He 
felt reassured. “Please, sir. Bill’s waitin’ for the 
wrench. Mayn’t I go .? ” 

Then a vision appeared, so it seemed to the boy, 
and stood by Carson’s side — a vision with a dark 
shawl about her shoulders, and great masses of red 
brown hair, all dishevelled, and eyes, — such wonderful 
blue eyes, beneath brows as straight as a line — eyes 
3 


THE NEW BOSS. 


34 

that seemed to look the boy through, and dazzled 
him. Her age might have been twenty-five, possibly 
a year or two more. 

“The boy’ll have a nice story to tell,” she said 
petulantly. 

Carson laughed, and passed his arm about her 
waist. 

“Not he; he’ll never mention anything he has 
seen or heard, — will you, Nippers ? ” 

“Never, — s’elp me ! ” was the prompt reply. 

“ Now you may go.” 

And away he went, rejoiced at getting off so 
easily. Arrived at camp, he “sneaked” a supper 
from the cook, then betook himself to the isolation 
of a red-pine stump, seated himself upon it, tucked 
his knees up under his chin, clasped his thin grimy 
little hands about them, and as the stars came out, 
one by one, waking, dreamt of that cloaked vision, 
and, may be, wove a childish romance out of what 
he had seen and heard. 

Meanwhile Carson and his companion walked 
slowly back towards Bisco. Arrived at the edge of 
the clearing in which the village stood, Carson 
seated himself on a log, motioning the woman to a 
seat by his side, but she remained standing before 
him. He looked up at her and smiled, and taking 
her hand in his, kissed it. She drew it from him and 
' passed it through his hair, lovingly, then allowed it 
to fall behind his head ; her arm, bare to the elbow, 
rested warm about his neck. 

“Strange,” he said, looking at her thoughtfully, 


THE NEW BOSS. 


35 


“ I have never yet seen your father, he seems to be 
always away, — always up the line looking for some 
mythical contract. I am positively beginning to look 
upon him as a myth, and to believe you came clown 
from heaven, my sweet, to be the joy of my life.” 

She looked down at him and smiled, — her smile 
was intoxicating. 

It was a dangerously beautiful night in August, 
heavy with the scent of the balsam and the pine, 
and the woman stood before him in all the pride of 
her loveliness, her eyes like stars, courting conquest, 
yielding, — only to him. 

“ What do you want with my father .? ” she mur- 
mured ; “ you have me.” The tone itself was a 
caress. 

“Yes,” he answered passionately, “I have you, 
— you, my dear, my own, — and always shall. 
Come,” — he held his arms out to her, — “how can I 
see those lovely eyes so far away ? Come, my 
angel. ” 

And as a wild bird flies to its mate in the spring- 
time, so she came — to her master ! Came with 
warm lips breathing love, — her glowing breast pant- 
ing rapture, — her eyes on fire. He held her in his 
arms : “Their lips were joined, their two souls, like 
two dewdrops, rushed into one,” — life and the world, 
heaven and earth, all were forgotten. And thus all 
that was worth a thought, a breath, each found in 
the other. O summer nights ! O shining stars ! 
how much have you to answer for ? How much 
love, and passion, and jealousy, and frail human 


THE HE PV BOSS. 


36 

weakness, have you not serenely looked down upon ? 
She, in the ripeness of her beauty, with more than 
most women’s capacity for passion, was intended by 
nature to love and to be loved. To her Carson was 
a king^ among men, — a being without a flaw. Had 
he abused her she would have wept and grovelled 
to him ; had he trampled upon her she would have 
kissed the adored foot that bruised her. Instead, he 
fondled, kissed, petted her, and she was transported. 
Paradise had nothing more to offer ; her passion 
made her an idolater. When she prayed she forgot 
her God, and remembered only Edward Carson. 

Two hours later that evening, as she sat in her 
room, dreaming, her head resting in her hand, there 
came a knock at her door. It was repeated ere she 
heard it. “ Come in,” she said. 

Enter Father McCool ! 

She seemed to be expecting him ; at any rate, she 
showed no surprise at his appearance. Upon the 
ample forehead of that reverend gentleman satis- 
faction had usurped the seat of piety. After closing 
and carefully bolting the door, he seated himself 
opposite her, and laughed : she had returned to her 
easy attitude, and pretended not to notice him, but her 
brows met, her foot gently tapped the floor. So far, 
not so much as a greeting had passed between them. 
At length he spoke. 

“Well ?” he said. 

She glanced up at him, quick as light. 

“Did you succeed ?” he inquired, after another 
pause. 


THE NEW BOSS. 


37 


“No." 

The expression of satisfaction took to itself wings ; 
his holiness looked annoyed. He rose to his feet 
and began pacing the room. 

“You said you could influence him." 

“Did I } ” Her foot beat a quicker tattoo. 

Father McCool came to a halt by her side, and 
laid his hand upon her shoulder. “Kate," he said, 
with an amiable smile, “you are a darned little fool. 

She shrugged her shoulders without replying. 

“ He is the only man I am at all afraid of,” he 
continued; “the others are idiots, pure and simple. 
You must persuade him, — there was never a man in 
love with a woman yet who could not be twisted 
round her little finger, provided she tried, — you must 
try again.” 

She remained obstinately silent. The father 
looked down at her, and the expression on his face 
was not pleasant. 

“Do you hear me.? You must try again, I say," 

“Yes, I hear you,” she replied ; her tone matched 
his expression, and was not pleasant. Then she 
raised her head, and resting her chin on her clenched 
hand, her elbow on her knee, looked at him. “Aren’t 
you running a risk coming to see me as you do .? " 
she inquired. 

“I suppose I am, but in my particular line it is 
necessary to run risks.” 

“To be candid,” she said slowly, “ it has often 
puzzled me to know exactly what that particular 
line is? ” 


38 


THE NEW BOSS. 


Beyond a glance, he paid no attention to her 
remark, 

“There’s a big consignment coming up from 
Pembi-oke,” he said. “Higgins is canoeing it up the 
Spanish with Bill, the half-breed.” 

“ The half-breed !” she exclaimed ; “he’s a queer 
one to trust.” 

The priest laughed. “Do you think I can’t trust 
Bill.? — Bill of all people.” 

“ He’ll find out — he’d smell it a mile off.” 

“ I don’t think so.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“ It’s a camp outfit this time.” 

“ Where will you receive it .? ” 

“ At the foot of the blind sny.” 

“ And then .? ” 

“ I was thinking of the old shanty.” 

The woman rose to her feet, walked to the door, 
opened it, and looked out. 

“ Well .? ” said the priest when she had relocked it 
and returned. 

She took a folded sheet of paper from her pocket, 
and handed it to him. 

“ Look at that,” she said. 

“ A tract, — one of my own ! ” 

“ Smell it.” 

He did so, then glanced at her interrogatively. 

“ Do you detect anything ? ” 

He nodded. 

“ It’s very faint,” she said. 

“Yes, barely perceptible, — but ” 


THE NEW BOSS. 


39 


“ I got that from him,” 

“ And where did he get it ? ” 

“ From you — that Sunday.” 

“ Not in this state?” 

She nodded. 

He burst out laughing. “What’s the use in 
lying ? ” 

“Oh, very well.” She rose to her feet, strolled 
over to the window, looked out, and began whis- 
tling, — she whistled uncommonly well. 

Father McCool sniffed the tract, — looked at her, — 
sniffed again, 

“ Kate,” 

There was no reply. He took a plug of T. and B. 
from his pocket, cut and filled a pipe, lighted it, and 
again looked at her. She was still whistling. 

“ Kate.” 

“ I’m listening.” Her whistling ceased. 

“ Don’t be a fool. — Come and tell me all about 
this infernal tract.” 

“ You said I lied.” 

“ Did I?” 

She nodded. 

The priest laughed again. “ I’ll take it all back,” 
he said. “But that Sunday was ten days ago — how 
could this retain the smell for such a length of 
time ? ” 

“ If you had asked me that first and waited for 
my answer, you might not have accused me of 
lying,” she replied, with a fine scorn. “I don’t lie. 
I wouldn’t be bothered.” While she spoke she 


40 


THE NEW BOSS. 


searched in a trunk which stood in a corner of 
the room for something, and at length unearthed a 
round tin jar with a lid that screwed on, rendering it 
air-tight, which she held out to the priest. “ I kept it 
in that,” she said. 

He glanced at it. 

“ Yes,” he replied indifferently. “Now let’s hear 
what you were going to say.” 

She returned the tin to her trunk, and seating her- 
self on the foot of her bed, began speaking. 

“ I was going to tell you that he has a mighty 
sharp boy there, who carries drills — and news. Who 
can see about as far into a stone wall as most boys 
can, and knows something more than his prayers.” 
She paused. 

“ Well } ” Father McCool looked interested. 

‘ ‘ The boy worships him. ” 

“ He’s not singular ! ” The father smiled. 

Her face flushed crimsom. 

“ If you begin that again. I’ve finished,” she 
said. 

“ I promise you I won’t,” said his reverence, 
laughing; “but first tell me how you came by thcit 
paper. 

“ He gave it to me.” 

“You Avormed that much out of him, did you.? 
Not so bad.” 

She flushed again, this time with anger — her eyes 
looked dangerous. 

“ Fie gave it to me, I said.” 

With his confidence .? ” 


THE NEW BOSS. 


41 


She controlled herself by an effort. “ If I am false 
to it — it is to save you.” 

“ Much obliged, I’m sure. Goon; continue your 
interesting narrative.” 

“ I will.” She spoke with a too palpable sneer. 
“I did not wish to recur to a past which caimot be 
otherwise than painful to a person of your sensitive 
nature ” 

“ Beautiful ! ” interrupted the priest, slapping his 
leg with a laugh. “ You remind me of that shrew of 
a woman, your mother. I don’t envy the man that 
gets you.” 

She continued without paying attention to the 
interruption : 

“ It is absolutely necessary to do so, however: 
now if you will be so kind as to make the required 
effort, you may, possibly, be able to recall to mind 
those Michipicoten riots 1 ” 

“ Of course. You’re doing well, Kate. Goon — 
blab it out, old girl.” 

“ And that insane shooting affair, after which the 
inotorious Jim Andrews left so myster ” 

“ What’s that got to do with this ? ” he interrupted. 

She held up her hand, 

“ It is only a preface,” she replied, “ necessary to 
a proper understanding of what follows. Of course 
he had to leave, — had they taken him he’d never 
have got away alive, — they were all mad, crazy, about 
it. I believe they’d have lynched him if ” 

“ What evidence had they?” 

She stamped her foot, 


42 


THE NEW BOSS. 


“ There was circumstantial evidence enough for 
that crowd to have strung a dozen men up, and you 
know that as well as I do.” 

“ For God’s sake, Kate, don’t speak so loud.” 

“ Then don’t interrupt. Now he’s seen Andrews 
half a dozen times, his memory’s good for faces, he’s 
hard up, there’s $2000 offered for Andrews’ arrest, — 
the man Andrews killed was his friend. What do . . . ” 

“ He doesn’t know me ! ” 

She rose to her feet with an exclamation of impa- 
tience. 

“ I’ve finished,” she said. 

“ Go on, Kate, — go on, for heaven’s sake. You’re 
the darndest woman for flying off the handle I ever 
saw. ” 

She turned to him again. 

“ Now look here — he’s not the man to forgive the 
death of his friend in a hurry. Whether he knows 
you or not I can’t say ; but things have a nasty 
appearance, there are no two ways about that. He 
had a good sit at Michipicoten. Why did he leave 
immediately on the disappearance of Andrews? 
Can you tell me that ? ” 

The priest shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Isn’t it a little odd his appearing here two days 
after your arrival ? ” 

“ You seem to forget yourself, my dear.” 

“ I don’t forget myself — but---but I’m puzzled.” 
She began pacing the room. “ I tell you I don’t like 
the look of things — he tells me much, but — not all. 
I do wish you would go ! — Mercy ! — were I a man 


THE NEW BOSS. 


43 


like you,” — she stopped in front of him and clenched 
her hand, — “ with your brains to plan, and your 
hands to work, I’d do something. I’d work like a 
man. I’d — I’d not run these hideous risks. Think 
what detection means, — oh, man, think ! But you 
won’t. Oh, how foolish you men are : how vain, how 
wicked, how selfish ! You will not stop until it is 
too lale : you go on and on and on with never a 
thought of the misery you bring to those who can 
feel. Perhaps when you have ruined my life, as you 
will ruin your own, perhaps then you will know 
remorse — but I doubt it. You are too cold, too unfeel- 
ing. What to you is the suffering, the disgrace, of one 
foolish weak woman, provided you gain your ends } 
— such despicable ends. Were it for something worth 
attaining I would sacrifice myself, yes, gladly — I 
have it in me ! ” She held up her head, her eyes 
blazed ; she looked as though she might do or dare 
a great deal. “ But no, you will stay in this vile 
hole, leading this hateful life, that no being worthy 
the name of man should lead.” She began her rapid 
pacing again. “ In what light will he see me when 
he finds out } He will find out, there is no use telling 
me he won’t, — I know it ; I feel it. Ah, how ungrate- 
ful ! Where is your generosity ? where is ” 

“ Kate, I swear ” 

She raised her hands with a despairing gesture. 

‘ ‘ Oh, how often have you sworn } How easy it is 
to swear ! How many oaths have you broken ? Oh 
— oh — oh ! ” She covered her face with her hands 
and began weeping. 


44 


THE NEW BOSS. 


The priest looked uncomfortable. 

“ After this consijjnment, Kate ” 

“ Oh — oh ! ” 

“ It’ll be the last, by heaven, — it'll be the last, this 
time certain. I promised you I’d leave. Well, I will 
when I get this off my hands. What more can I do } 
I must sell it now, or it’ll break me, then I’ll go and 
try something new — and respectable. There now 
will that satisfy you .? ” 

She raised her tear-stained face. 

“ He — he knows about the shanty — the b-boy 
followed you down — oh — oh ! — and came back and 
told him. He was there next morning at five. I — I 
won’t help you again. I’m not in it this time. You 
— you can play a lone hand. I don’t see why you 
ever dragged me into it, at all. Oh — why — why 

don’t you leave the ” 

“ Kate.” 

“Don’t — don’t speak to me anymore. I’m sick 
of it all. You are heartless, else you wouldn’t make 
me suffer as you do. What’s to become of me, oh 
— oh — oh ! — when he finds out ? Oh, my God ! ” 

“ Kate, I insist upon being ” 

She stamped her foot. 

“ Oh, go away; don’t — don’t— don’t speak to me 
again.” She threw herself on her bed. 

The priest looked angrily at her ; he felt himself to 
be an ill-used, ill-judged man ; plainly she was in a 
temper. 

“ Kate, you fool. I’ll see you again when you’ve 
come to your senses.” He unbolted the door, and 
passed out, drawing it gently to after him. 


THE HE BOSS. 


45 


III. 

A WEEK after the interview between Father Mc- 
Cool and Kate, Carson finished grading his cutting, 
and began the necessary preparations to work on 
another, a quarter of a mile or so further down the 
line, that is, nearer Bisco. There was a good deal 
of stripping to be done before they reached the rock, 
and the blacksmith’s outfit would have to be moved. 

Carson felt that he could dispense with Nippers’ 
services during the day, and accordingly called 
him. 

‘ ‘ Nippers, ” said he, ‘ ‘ I’m growing tired of Chicago 
chicken.” 

Nippers grinned. 

“Can you fire off a gun, Nippers.?” 

Nippers looked hurt. 

“I will be more explicit. Could you hit a flock 
of barns .? ” 

Nippers was deeply moved ; he wondered why he 
had been called up to be insulted, and ejaculated : 
“Could I!” Nippers possessed in a remarkable 
degree a talent for condensation. In the above 
mentioned exclamation there spoke volumes. 

“Then,” said Carson, “take that gun of mine, 
some powder and shot, and shoot me a brace of 
grouse. ” 


46 


THE NEW BOSS. 


“A brace ? ” 

“Two, Ignoramus.” 

“When must I come back, sir?” 

“You may have the clay.” 

Away he went, with a gun as tall as himself, 
his nose in the air, the proudest youth from Bisco 
to Pogomasing : past black George, who was sweat- 
ing beneath a load of crowbars. Cisco Jimmy, 
whom he met next, he anathematized with a brisk 
volley of railwayisms, to be heard to be appreci- 
ated. 

Bill, the blacksmith, his particular pal, he cut 
dead, and disappeared into the bush at the end of 
the embankment, with the strut of a game-cock, fol- 
lowed by an ironical howl from the afore-mentioned 
descendant of Vulcan. 

From the end of the enbankment an old disused 
trail led two miles south to the foot of Biscotasing 
Lake, followed it half a mile, and was lost in a 
second growth of poplar and birch. 

Along this trail stalked Nippers, with watchful 
eye. Fie had not proceeded a hundred yards when 
— cluck — cluck — cluck — cluck — whir-r-r ! — up rose a 
gamey old cock grouse and settled in a balsam, 
cocked its head, and contemplated Nimrod. 

With a mighty effort the gun was raised ; the bar- 
rel wavered an instant. The grouse became inter- 
ested. Doubtless it had never seen- so small a boy 
armed with so ponderous a weapon. 

Bang ! The goddess of flukes, herself, if there 
be such a deity, must have directed that shot. Nip- 


THE HE IV BOSS. 


47 


pers certainly did not ; his eyes were closed. Down 
fell the grouse in a cloud of feathers ! Head over 
heels went Nippers into a bog ! 

Cluck — cluck — cluck — whir-r-r ! — whir-r-r ! 

Up rose two more and settled, one in a hemlock, 
t’other in a spruce. 

Nippers picked himself up ; there was blood in 
his eye, — he was muddy, bruised, determined. 
Bang ! — Bang ! This time he kept his eyes open, 
his feet on /erra firnia, his gun comparatively 
steady. 

Two more grouse were added to his bag. He tied 
them together with a string, hung them over his 
shoulder, and forward to fresh feats ! A mile further, 
a fat hare sprang into the middle of the trail. 

Bang ! — away ran the hare, sound in wind and 
limb, followed by a remark coupled with an ejacu- 
lation that would have one credit to a railroad super- 
intendent. 

Nippers saw nothing more till he reached the 
shore of the lake, where he seated himself in the 
shade of a balsam for rest and refreshment. 

In his pocket he had a doughnut, a lump of 
cheese, a slice of pork, and a hunk of bread. In 
his stomach, emptiness. 

Nippers’ education had been neglected — woefully. 
He ate the doughnut first, because it was sweetest; 
secondly, the cheese, because he preferred it to pork ; 
thirdly, the pork and bread, because he was still 
hungry, — there was nothing else ; lastly, he dined in 
this order because — happy youth ! — he was not 


48 


THE NEW BOSS. 


aware that he possessed a liver. His midday meal 
finished, he took from another pocket a remarkably 
old, remarkably dirty, clay pipe, boasting a good 
two inches of stem, and containing a heel of tobacco. 
Lighting this he leaned back, folded his arms, 
crossed his legs, and tried to imagine himself a west- 
ern desperado after a dinner of grizzly-bear steak. 

His imaginings were disturbed by the sound of 
voices and the ‘Stroke of a paddle. Round the nearest 
point a bark canoe, containing two men and a load, 
was approaching. When it was within fifty yards, 
Nippers, uttering an exclamation, ducked down 
out of sight behind a boulder. Within twenty yards 
of the boulder, on the farther side of a clump of 
bushes, was an old landing and camp-ground, for 
which the canoe was headed, and, to Nippers’ dis- 
may, the two men landed, and began unloading. 
He watched them take out six bales of blankets, 
next a large bundle which looked like a tent, then a 
small tent which they immediately pitched. Then 
the younger man of the two, who looked little more 
than a boy, remarked to the older : 

“You might cut some wood and light the fire, 
while I get the bacon sliced.” 

The one addressed, with a grunt of acquiescence 
shouldered his axe and started off in the direction of 
a dry rampike. When he was fairly at work, and 
making noise enough to conceal the advance of a 
regiment, and the other was busy with the bacon, 
Nippers, on hands and knees, crawled away, till well 
out of hearing, then rising to his feet, started at a 


THE HE tv BOSS. 4(3 

brisk run for the shanty, where he arrived in due 
course, breathless and excited. 

“Where’s the boss.^ ” he inquired of the first of 
the gang he met, who happened to be an Italian. 

“ No here ; p’raps up line.” 

He rushed into the shanty. The cook was in the 
midst of an extra Ipking. 

“ Boss here ” ?/gain queried Nippers excitedly. 

“To hell with you and the boss ! ” said the cook, 
who, between the baking and his liver, was a little 
out of sorts. 

Away ran Nippers to the new cutting, where, to his 
discomfiture, he found Sandy Mac acting foreman. 
Mac and he did not pull. 

“Ain’t the boss here ? ” he panted. 

“It don’t look much like it, does it, sonny ? ” 

“ Where is he ? ” Nippers was rapidly becoming 
frantic. 

Sandy Mac eyed him with an affected curiosity. 

“ The lippy young pup,” he murmured softly, “he 
gives himself that many airs, ye’d think he was nevvy 
to Van Horne.” 

In despair Nippers seated himself on a boulder, 
and stared vacantly at the gang. He had half a 
mind to go to Bisco, but Carson might not be there. 
He caught Mac’s eye, and again addressed him. 

“ Won’t you tell me now ? ” He tried a wheedling 
tone. 

“Tell ye what ? ” 

“ Where he is .? ” 

‘ ‘ Where who is ? ” 

4 


5 ° 


THE NEW BOSS. 


“ The boss,” 

“ What boss? ” 

“ YoTe mighty smart now, ain’t yo’ ? ” The wheed- 
ling tone had vanished. The men looked at Nippers 
and grinned encouragement. He needed none. 

‘ ‘ Don’t be sassy now ! ” 

“ Who’s sassy ? ” 

“ Yo’re sassy.” 

“Yo don’t know sass from perliteness, yo’re that 
ignorant.” 

“ I weren’t brought up your way, its easy seein’. ” 

“ Yo, wer’n’t brought up at all,yo’ walked up, an’ 
druv a cow ahead o’ yo’. ” 

The men roared. Nippers rose to his feet, looked 
Mac in the eye, placed his thumb to his nose, ex- 
tended his four fingers, then, turning, walked moodily 
away, followed by a remark from Mac, roughly 
descriptive, markedly condematory,and at the first 
bend in the road met the person for whom he was 
looking. 

“Oh, sir ! ” exclaimed Nippers. 

“Well?” 

Nippers glanced warily about to make sure that 
no one was within earshot ; then, with an air of 
tragic mystery, in a stage whisper that could have 
been heard at least a hundred feet farther than his 
ordinary tone, he said : 

“He’s back ! ” 

Carson looked puzzled. 

“ Who ? ” he inquired. 

“The priest, — Father McCool ! ” 


THE NEW BOSS. 


SI 

“ Whe-e-e-u-u ! ” whistled Carson. 

“An' there’s another with him,” continued 
Nippers. 

“Another ? ” 

“Ay; young cuss, bossed his nibs all around.” 
Then Nippers gave him a detailed account of the 
morning. 

“ Nippers,” said Carson, “ not a word of this to 
another soul. ” 

Nippers pulled his cap down over his left eye, 
glared importance from beneath the brim, and 
replied ; 

“ Not a word, s’elp me ! ” 

“Now,” said Carson, “I’m going to interview his 
holiness ; you’d better get back to camp.” 

“ Coin’ alone ? ” 

Carson nodded. 

Nippers looked hurt, and began to fidget. 

“ Can’t I go too, boss ? ” 

Carson shook his head. 

“ They might turn ugly ? ” 

Carson smiled. “ I don’t think so,” he said. 

“Two to one’s big odds when it comes to scrap- 
pin’ } ” whined Nippers. 

“Will you tackle the father?” inquired Carson. 

Nippers’ eyes glowed. “ I’d tackle the divil if 
you was there to back me, boss.” 

Carson laughed. “No, you’d better get back to 
camp,” he said. 

“Oh, boss.” 

“Get along with you now.” 


52 


THE NEW BOSS. 


Away slouched Nippers with hanging head. 

As the evening was coming on and the shadows 
were beginning to lengthen, Carson stood behind the 
clump of bushes which had screened Nippers. A 
small tent was pitched some twenty yards away, 
before which smouldered the remains of a camp fire. 

In front of the fire, stretched on a gray blanket, 
reclined the burly form of Father IMcCool. He was 
smoking a clay pipe, and talking to a young man, 
who sat with his back to Carson, a cigarette between 
his lips, in moody silence. 

“ Only two more days of it,” the priest was saying, 
“then Higgins takes it off my hands, and I’m clear.” 

Carson heard the words and smiled. 

“ I’ll not feel safe till you’re out of this,” murmured 
the other; “ he’s a hard one to fool.” 

A startled look came into Carson’s face. There was 
something wonderfully familiar in that voice, — but 
whose could it be ? Where had he heard it before ? _ 
He had always flattered himself that he possessed 
an unfailing memory, — that he could as readily 
recognize a man by his voice as by his face. Here 
was a person whom he had most certainly known, — 
but where, when ? That was the question, — and a 
question that perplexed him not a little. Whoever he 
was, however, the perplexing young man was right ; 
he would very shortly prove himself most conclu- 
sively “ a hard one to fool,” and at the thought he 
smiled grimly. 

“ Pshaw,” continued the priest, “ he doesn’t know 
the first thing about it ; thinks I’m miles from 


THE NEW BOSS. 


53 


here. He may be sharp as you say, but " — a self- 
satisfied smile spread itself over his smug coun- 
tenance — “I flatter myself I’m about equally sharp.” 

Carson stepped out from behind the bushes, and 
walked up to the fireplace, his hands in his coat 
pockets. 

“ No, Jim Andrews,” he said, in the quietest voice 
imaginable, “ not half so sharp.” 

The effect was electrical. The young man gave a 
very unmanly scream, hid his face in his hands, and 
began rocking his body backwards and forwards. 

His reverence, the person addressed as Jim 
Andrews, behaved differently. With an expression 
by no means orthodox, he sprang to his feet, and 
stood glaring at Carson, who coolly seated himself 
on a log, and laughed. It was not altogether a 
pleasant laugh though, — not contagious. 

“ So I’ve got you at last, ha — ha — ha ! From Michi- 
picoten to Bisco is a long way through the bush, 
but not quite far enough — no, not quite far enough, 
ha — ha — ha ! ” 

The object of his laughter looked unutterable 
things. 

“You certainly are a great fool, Jim Andrews,” 
Carson went on in the same maddening tones. “I 
cannot imagine a man at your trade caught like this” 
— he made an expressive gesture with his hands — 
“ without a weapon, and” — with a backward jerk 
of his thumb — “such a pal.” 

Carson paused a moment. Andrews, as he may 
now be called, ground his teeth. 


54 


THE NEW BOSS. 


“Well, what’s the next move?” he inquired. 

“To bring you back to Eisco.” 

“Supposing I object ? ” 

He stretched himself again on his blanket with 
an affected air of unconcern. Carson shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“I wouldn’t if I were you.” 

Andrews refilled his pipe, and lighted it with a coal. 

“Two thousand’s a good morning’s haul,” he 
sneered. 

“Not at all bad,” was the amiable response. 
“ Now tell me what you’ve got in those bales.” 

“Can’t you guess ? ” 

“ I think I can.” 

A cunning look came into Andrews’ face ; he 
became communicative. 

“Besides the ordinary thing, in that one,” — indi- 
cating the bale that resembled a tent, — “I’ve about 
one hundred dollars’ worth of the highest grade Swiss 
gold watches, manufactured in New York city, of 
the best American brass — the rankest metal known — 
guaranteed to run long enough to let me get well 
out of the country. I’d have made about two 
hundred per cent on that little deal, if you hadn’t 
spoilt it, damn you ! ” 

Carson smiled. 

“ I think,” he said, “the men owe me a debt of 
gratitude.” 

“I hope they may pay it,” said the other, with a 
sneer. 

The young man meanwhile sat quietly where he 


THE NEW BOSS. 


55 


was, his face hidden in his hands. He was watching 
Carson through the interstices of his fingers. 
Andrews spoke again. 

“ How did you know I was in Risco.? ’’ 

“ I didn’t know you were in Bisco. ” 

“ Didn’t you follow me } ” 

“From Michipicoten ? — no.” 

“Well, I'll be hanged ! ” 

“Very possibly,” Carson assented, cheerfully. 
“Did you know me when I gave you that tract 
in the shanty ? ” 

“Not at first; there was something familiar, 
though, in your figure ; your voice, I could hardly 
make out ; then I discovered your little game. Your 
disguise was good, very good, indeed. It was later, 
during the night or morning, it suddenly struck me 

like a revelation ; then I knew it was you ” 

“And then you went down to the shanty — followed 
me.? ” 

Carson nodded, 

“ I got ahead of you that time.” 

“Yes, you got ahead of me that time.” 

There was a few moments’ silence. Andrews 
picked a leaf from the ground, and began pulling it to 
pieces. Carson turned his glance again towards the 
young man, who bent his head still lower. Why did 
his figure remind him so forcibly of some one .? — and 
who could that some one be .? He had never been so 
strangely at fault in his life before. He stared at the 
ground, frowned, gnawed his moustache in puzzled 
wonderment, and glanced again at the figure. A look 


THE NEW BOSS. 


5 '^ 

of startled recognition came into his eyes ; for the 
first time he noted two things, namely, that the hands 
of this extremely nervous individual were unusually 
small and delicately shaped for a man ; and that upon 
the third finger of the left hand was a plain diamond 
ring. He knew that ring — in fact, it had once been 
his own. With a smothered exclamation he rose to 
his feet, so likewise did the youth, at the same time 
uncovering his face. For an instant they stood 
facing each other. 

“ Kate ! ” 

He was beside her, stern, terrible. He gripped the 
slender wrist, so that the pain of it hurt her. Her 
face grew colorless. 

“Edward — Edward — have pity! Oh, my God 1 ” 
she moaned. 

He looked her over from head to foot. 

“What does this mean — this masquerading.? ” His 
voice was strangely calm. Its calmess terrified her 
all the more. 

Jim Andrews raised himself on his arm and watched 
the two. 

In an agony she looked down , — down at her legs I 
and the hot blood rushed back from her heart and 
dyed her white face crimson. 

“ What have you to do with this man. What is he 
to you .? ” 

“ Don’t — don’t ask me.” 

“Kate, I insist upon knowing.” His voice was 
calm as ever. His eyes, — a curious light had come 
into his eyes, — grew hard, bright, pitiless. 


THE NEW BOSS. 


57 

“ He is my — my father.” Her tone was scarce 
above a whisper. 

“ Your father ! ” He dropped her wrist — dropped 
it as though the touch contaminated him, and 
stepped back a pace. “Your father, the man who 
killed my friend 1 the most notorious ” 

Then she came to herself of a sudden — she became 
the lioness ! She forgot her terror — her legs — every- 
thing except that her father was in danger, — that she 
must defend him. She became magnificent. Past 
her lover she walked like a goddess, — a goddess in 
trousers ! was there ever such a being ? He had 
never admired her half so much before. 

Jim Andrews actuall}?- forgot his own situation, and 
became interested. 

“ And what would you do with him, — my father ? ” 
she exclaimed. Her voice was no longer scarcely 
audible, but rang out clear as a bell. “You will bring 
him to Bisco, you say. We know what that means : 
you will hound him to death, — my father? Shame 
— shame ! — have you no feeling for me, for the 
woman you swore you loved, whom you swore you 
would protect : is it protection to hold her name up 
for a bye-word among her fellows ? A pretty pro- 
tection that ! God save me from such a protection. 
Or is that your way of proving your love? Will 
you show me that those were only empty words, 
—hateful, cowardly words? Do you think his 
daughter will ever look at you again, except to curse 
you,” — she stamped her foot, — “should you do what 
you threaten ? Put yourself in his place. You have 


THE NEW BOSS. 


58 

strong feelings — passionate feelings — how would 
you have acted were your positions reversed ? What 
he did, he did in a moment of passion ; — what you 
might do, were you equally provoked : — for that 
mad act must he die the most hateful of deaths ? I 
tell yqu he shall not, — do you hear? — he shall not ! 
he is my father , — my father, I tell you ” 

“ He killed 77iy friend," said Carson doggedly. 

“Your friend, — pah! am I not more than your 
friend ? Will you sacrifice the woman you love for 
your friend ? Oh, you are mad — mad. ” 

“Justice demands it.” 

“Justice!” She raised her hands; there was a 
blazing scorn in her eyes. “Justice, dear God! he 
cries for justice — bloody justice ! Hear him ! Will 
justice be any the better off for his death? Will 
justice be any the more just for my sorrow? Will 
justice be any the more just when it has taught me 
to hate you? Leave justice to those whose trade is 
justice. Why could you not have listened to me ? 
I implored you to leave this matter alone ; I begged 
you on my knees. I thought you were good, I 
thought you were kind, I thought you were brave. 
Goodness teaches us to forgive, — have you forgiven ? 
Kindness teaches us to forbear, — is this forbearance ? 
Is it brave to play the sneak and the spy ? Edward 
Carson ! I thought you were noble, — I would not 
have loved you else ; will you teach me to despise 
him whom I loved ? — I am but a weak woman. ” Her 
voice grew tender, a big tear rolled down each cheek ; 
she was very clever, — she looked an angel. “Will 


THE NEW BOSS. 


59 


you break my poor woman’s heart ? ” She placed 
her hand upon her side with a gesture full of 
pathos. 

Carson seated himself upon the log from which he 
had risen, and bowed his head upon his hand. 

“ Edward, I am only a woman.” 

He made no response. 

“Edward, my own, you love me; let justice 
alone, Edward.” 

He remained silent. 

“We must not wreck our lives, dear, for a senti- 
ment.” She knelt beside him, she drew his hands 
from his face, and kissed him on the lips — she was 
very lovely. Perhaps for a special constable he was 
weak ? — as her arguments were weak. He put his 
arms about her, and kissed her sweet face again and 
again. Then she jumped to her feet and ran to her 
father. 

“Go,” she panted in her excitement, “there’s a 
paddle,” — she thrust one into his hand — “a canoe, 
tent, blankets — go ! ” 

She hurried him to the shore. 

“Those Swiss watches manufactured in New York 
City,” he murmured. 

“S-h-h-s-s-s !” she said, and pushed out the canoe. 

“And you.J* ” he said, turning to her, 

“I — I remain with him, with my — my husband,” 
she replied, blushing like a summer morning. 

Then she held her face up to him ; her eyes were 
filled with tears. “ Kiss me good-bye, father.” 

He stooped, and did so. 


6o 


THE NEW BOSS. 


A few moments later the canoe turned the point 
and was gone. 

The loads were all tamped, ready for firing. The 
horses had been driven out of danger ; all hands had 
retired six or eight chains. 

Sandy i\Iac sprang into the cutting, touched the 
projecting fuses with a red-hot iron, and out again 
like a cat. 

Cisco Jimmy borrowed a chew from Black George, 
filled his cheek, sighed, and remarked : 

“Them darned whisky pedlars are pretty hard to 
down. ” 

“Ay,” responded Black George, “an’ that thar 
Father McCool beats the hull outfit for right-down 
cuteness. Think o’ him rigged up like a priest ! 
— cripes ! ” 

“An’ think o’ all them cans ripped to blazes an’ 
not a drop left ; that’s what I calls crime.” 

“What clean knocks me gally-west is what’s 
become o’ the boss. Carson never even turned 
up for his pay, an’ that young Nippers gone too. 
Humph !” 

“ I heerd tell,” continued Cisco Jimmy, expectorat- 
ing thoughtfully at a chip, “as how he went off 
with some woman or other, but then ” 

Bang ! Bang ! Bang ! Bang ! 

Then a rattle of falling debris. 

“ A-a-a-11 over ! ” 

The gang returned to the cutting. The clink, clink, 
clink of the hammers on the drills rang out in the 


THE NEW BOSS. 


6i 


clear air. The work went on, much as it had when 
Carson had bossed the gang, and Nippers had carried 
the drills. Both had gone, as so many went on that 
wonderful line — no one knew whither, — and very 
probably no one cared. 


r f 



A 





\ 


t 


I 




V 



A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE 
O P I O N G O. 


CHAPTER I. 

John Knowles was by no means a brilliant man. 
As a boy at school he had been a butt for his com- 
panion’s chaff. In later years the men who knew 
him spoke of him as a good sort, but slow. The 
women said that he was stupid and a fright, — possi- 
bly they were correct. He was certainly not beauti- 
ful : he had red hair, small blue eyes, a freckled face, 
and a nose, — merciful heaven, what a nose ! It was 
neither long nor short, fat nor thin, Roman nor 
Grecian ; it was, in fact, a feature that beggared 
description. Despite its ugliness, however, his face 
was a kindly one, with a certain straightforward 
manliness about it. His size, too, was against him ; 
at least, so the women thought. “ Look at his ridic- 
ulous shoulders,” they would exclaim. “ We don’t 
want a Hercules. Imagine being touched by such a 
monster.” Up would go their eyes to heaven. “ I 
assure you, my love, I would much prefer a bear — 
horrors ! ” and so forth, and so on ; — they discussed 


64 ^ TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 

him mostly as the dear creatures will anything that 
wears trousers. Then too he was shy, self-conscious, 
awkward, — and what under the sun does society 
want with the like of that ? 

To counterbalance these little deficiences he pos- 
sessed some qualifications by no means too com- 
mon. — If he was stupid he had indomitable per- 
severance, he was high-principled, he was conscien- 
tious, and with these three attributes it is a little diffi- 
cult to say just exactly what a man will make of his 
life. 

John Knowles was, however, singularly unfortu- 
nate : he had fallen in love, as men cursed with high 
principles and conscientiousness generally do, deeply 
and hopelessly. To fall honorably in love, with any 
one but yourself, is a piece of insane folly, as every- 
body knows ; but ! alas : John Knowles was much 
too stupid to see it in that light. He gloried in the 
depravity of his condition. 

The object of his affections was a very pretty, 
very clever little brunette, with a score of other 
admirers, and an insatiable love of admiration. 

Knowles had several friends among the men, and 
they were all sincerely sorry for him ; but they 
thought it wisest not to say so, at least to Knowles, 
— he was far too big. 

The women themselves were puzzled, not at his 
falling in love with her, he was only following in the 
footsteps of a dozen others, but at her accepting his 
admiration as she did. They couldn’t make it out, 
so they consoled themselves with making nasty 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OE THE OPIONGO. 65 

remarks ; — but then women have a habit of making 
nasty remarks — particularly about each other, — so 
it didn’t really matter. Miss Ethel March, however, 
had her reasons for allowing her great bear to come 
and dance to her ; — she found him useful. 

He kept her supplied with flowers during the 
winter, he ran messages for her, he listened to 
her endless stories of past conquest, and was edified 
by them ; he quite overlooked the utter absence of 
principle then evinced. He mistook the spiteful 
things she said of her dearest friend for wit, and 
was hugely tickled. His admiration was so sincere 
that it amused her. “He is so funny, he makes me 
roar,” so she said. He meanwhile failed to notice 
the fact of her being a vain woman, and actually 
believed her to be an angel. Men are such fools, — 
especially the conscientious ones. 

One evening when he called, she was more enchant- 
ing than ever. He looked into her wonderful dark 
eyes. He thought he saw there love, and trust, and 
sweet womanly sympathy, and faith, and a hundred 
other tender graces. There was love enough in them, 
heaven knows — love of ease, love of money, love of 
self, but of the kind he looked for there was none, 
not the most infinitesimal amount. And if there was 
any honesty in them, it was only the reflection of his 
own. Surely, he thought, she must care for him. 
She allowed him to visit her, to sit whole hours with 
her, — O delicious hours! When he expressed his 
admiration in his clumsy way, she seemed pleased. 
At the dances to which he followed her, — he loathed 
5 


66 A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 


dances, — she always gave him more of her swee' 
society than she gave to any other man. Surely 
this was sufficient proof of a tenderer feeling than 
one of mere toleration. 

Thus he reasoned to himself. He had much to 
learn about the sex, — much that most men know 
instinctively. But then he was stupid — oh, so 
stupid. 

While she, — he felt that she was clever enough to 
see that he loved her, — loved! do I say? He 
worshiped ! — he adored her 1 

And for a few moments, as he looked on the sweet 
face before him, he forgot his shyness, his awkward- 
ness, the self-consciousness that had maddened him 
a score of times, and leaning forward he took one of 
her pretty hands in his and told her of his love ; and 
her answer — may Heaven forgive her I — she laughed 
in his face ! 

The idea was quite too ridiculous. Of course he 
might come and see her, — two or three times a week, 
— why not ? She might even continue to honour 
him by the acceptance of as many flowers and pres- 
ents as he might see fit to send her. Then the great 
gentle creature became as dogged as he could be — 
with her. He must have her to himself, her always 
— or nothing. He was welcome then to nothing. 
Nothing in exchange for all his faithful, honest 
affection, the best his heart could offer, — nothing but 
a laugh 1 Certainly it seemed a little hard, — but 
then he had brought it all upon himself by his stupid 
earnestness. Why could he not be like other men 1 — 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OITONGO. 67 

why not indeed ? Why cannot a lion be like an ass, 
or an eagle like a crow ? But then, with all her 
cleverness, she did not know her lover to be a lion. 
She had convinced herself, months before, that he 
was nothing more or less than a big, harmless donkey. 
Ves, and one that did not even know how to bray. 
Had he stormed and bullied, he might have been 
successful, and been made miserable for life. Some 
women must be wooed in that manner to be won, 
but it is an open question whether such are worth the 
winning. However, he did not know this, and per- 
haps it is as well that he did not. It was much bet- 
ter for him to go down to his grave believing all the 
good he could of her. A great disappointment is a 
bitter pill to swallow, but it is gall and wormwood 
to discover that she to whom we have given the best 
that is in us is not, and never was, worthy a 
thought : that at least was spared him. He was 
much too stupid to see it. 

He sat before her, stricken, dazed, a world of 
anguish in his eyes. Then he bowed his head, and 
covering his face with his large hands, sat motion- 
less and silent in his misery. He did not, as lovers 
do, entreat her for a second hearing ; instinctively 
he knew the hopelessness of such a course. The 
die was cast — he had staked his all upon a throw 
and lost. How he left her he never quite knew. 
The great trouble with natures such as his is, that 
they have a terrible capacity to feel — to suffer. 

It was a little before ten in the evening when he 
left Ethel March. 


68 A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 


It was a little after two in the morning when he 
reached his boarding-house. 

What he did with himself in the interim, or where 
he went, he could never tell. 

His own unhappiness, however, did not make 
him a whit less thoughtful of the comfort of others. 
He took his boots off at the foot of the two flights of 
stairs which led up into his own room, lest he 
should disturb the other boarders, who were all a 
hard-working, early-retiring lot of humanity. 

As usual he knelt down to pray, but knew not 
what he said ; then he put out the light and got into 
his bed, but he did not sleep ; he lay there tossing 
from side to side, suffering as he had never done 
before. When at length he did fall asleep, it was 
only to dream of a happiness that could never be 
his. The next morning at breakfast the other 
boarders noticed his altered appearance. One 
politely hoped that he was not ill ; he thanked him 
quietly and assured him that he was not. At the 
office — he was clerk in a large wholesale dry goods 
establishment — his chief exclaimed in shocked tones : 

“ Good heavens, Knowles! What on earth’s the 
matter with you ? Are you ill ? ” 

Knowles flushed. 

“No, sir,” he replied. “I am perfectly well, 
thank you.” 

“You had better see a doctor,” said his chief, and 
bustled away. 

Knowles did not take his advice ; but turned to his 
work for solace, set his teeth, and played the man. 


A TRUE CHRONICLE Ob THE OPIONGO. 69 

A month passed away. He had lost ten pounds 
in weight : his misery was not allayed. 

Two months ; he still worked like a demon, and 
longed without hope for change. 

One day, towards the end of the third month, he 
was reading his paper, while he munched his noon- 
day sandwich, when his eye was arrested by an ad- 
vertisement ; it was to the effect that some wild 

lands in the township of R , in Northern 

Ontario, were for sale. 

A thought occurred to him ; he dismissed it, and 
returned to his work. 

In the evening it attacked him again, and would 
not be driven away. In the end it conquered him. 

A week later he resigned his position in, say. 
Snob and Sons’. Snob was irritated. Sons were 
puzzled. Knowles was without exception the best 
clerk they had. 

“ May I ask what you intend doing.? ” says Snob. 

“Settling,” says Knowles. 

“Settling ! — ah ! — ahem ! — indeed ! — settling 
whom ? or — ah ! what .? ” says Snob, somewhat 
mystified. 

“I am going to buy and clear a farm in Northern 
Canada; the life here does not agree with me, sir.” 

“ I am sorry to hear it, Mr. Knowles,” said Snob 
pompously. — Why, on Earth is it that successful 
tradesmen are always pompous ? — “ You are one of 
our most promising clerks — the most promising I 
might say ; you are certain of promotion ere long. 
Do you think you are acting wisely ? ” Knowles 


70 A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 

thought so, said so, and finally bade Snob and Sons 
good-bye, and took his departure, leaving those 
gentlemen very much astonished that anybody 
having the chance to become gray-haired in their 
enijjloy should throw such an opportunity away. 

John Knowles was in his thirtieth year when he 
left the above-mentioned firm. He had entered it 
fourteen years previously at a salary of twenty 
dollars a month. When he left he was in the enjoy- 
ment of sixteen hundred dollars per annum, and be- 
ing of a careful, saving disposition, had accumulated 
about $3, 500. 

From a crown-land agent in charge of the district 
he got what information he wanted with regard to 
necessary payments, etc., and a week later took his 
berth in a sleeper, and was soon rushing as rapidly 
as steam could convey him to the scene of his new 
life and labors. 

At four o’clock on a certain August morning he 
arrived at a melancholy little village, consisting of 
half a dozen frame houses, as many log ones, and 
an apology for a hotel, where he was informed a 
stage would start in a few minutes for F.ganville, 
where a second would connect with it for boudeuel, 
and a third take him thence to Bark Lake, upon 
the shores of which he intended settling. Flis trip 
by stage it is needless to dwell upon ; suffice it to 
say that in due course of time he reached his des- 
tination, where he found, in the phraseology of the 
country, a “stopping place, ’’and a most squalid dirty 
one it was. As for the country, it was about the most 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 71 

dreary, desolate jumble of rocky hills and gloomy 
spruce swamps that one could well imagine, with 
an old government road, by name the Opiongo, run- 
ning snake-like through it. The first morning after 
his arrival John Knowles shouldered an axe, with 
the laudable intention of doing a little exploration 
for land, and returning for supper. He followed 
the Opiongo a mile or so, then struck off across 
country, and, as’ might be expected, spent the day, 
the night, and half the following day, among the 
hills. In short, he lost his way, and in all likelihood 
would have left his bones to bleach in some spruce 
swamp if by sheer good luck he had not been found 
by one Dick Swartz, a big, red-shirted, red-bearded 
settler in search of a young heifer, which, like our 
hero, had gone astray, but, unlike him, was never 
found. Swartz was a good bushman, a good hunter, 
and a good fellow ; and before Knowles had been with 
him an hour he had taken a decided liking to him. 
Swartz informed him that the Opiongo was one mile 
north, the “stopping place,” Jenkins’, about two 
miles northeast, and was considerably astonished 
when Knowles told him that he had no compass, 
and had never been in the wilderness before. 

Swartz stared at him a little puzzled. 

“ You see,” said Knowles, “I’ve come out here 
to settle.” 

“ Humph ! ” said Swartz. 

“And I thought I’d have a look about for land. 
I’m staying at Jenkins’ at present.” 

“Farmed before, I s’pose ? ” inquired Swartz, 


72 A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 

Knowles was constrained to admit that he had 
not. 

“Judge o’ land.'* ” 

Knowles blushed and felt uncomfortable. His 
gigantic ignorance dawned upon him. 

“No, I — I’m afraid I’m not.” 

“ Humph ! ” ejaculated Swartz a second time. He 
did not speak again till they reached the Opiongo. 

“Jenkins’ 's on that hill,” he said, pointing east- 
ward. 

“I’m much obliged. I’m sure,” said Knowles. 
“Goodness knows when I would have found this 
road if it hadn’t been for you.” 

“ It’s considered unusual in these parts,” said 
Swartz, speaking slowly and gravely, “to travel the 
bush alone unless you have a sort o’ general notion 
where you’re heading for, an’ know somethin’ about 
the lay o’ country. ” 

“I suppose so,” said Knowles, “but you see I’m 
a little green at this work yet.” 

“Yes,” replied Swartz, eyeing him curiously; 
“ folks don’t always come out o’ their first trip as 
lucky as you did.” 

Knowles smiled. “ I’d have reached a house, I 
suppose, in course of time .? ” 

“If you’d walked seventy or eighty miles, speakin’ 
rough, in the direction you were goin', you might ’a 
struck Bill Simpson’s clearin’, but then agin you 
mightn’t.” 

“Seventy or eighty miles!” Knowles was 
astonished. 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 73 

Swartz nodded. “That’s, as the crow flies, about 
the distance, I guess.” 

Knowles glanced above at the great, bare, lonely 
hills, and began partly to realize his escape. 

After a few more words they separated, and fifteen 
minutes or so later Knowles reached Jenkins’, tired, 
hungry, and footsore. 

Three days after the meeting above described, 
Swartz called at Jenkins' with a letter to be sent 
away by the first stage. 

Knowles was sitting on the doorstep discussing 
an after-dinner pipe. 

“ Well,” said Swartz, after they had wished each 
other good-day, “have you located your claim 
yet ? ” 

“If you mean my farm,” said Knowles, with a 
somewhat rueful smile, “I have not.” 

Swartz seated himself, likewise, on the steps, pulled 
a short and remarkably black clay-pipe from his 
pocket, filled it slowly, carefully lighted it, and puffed 
for a few moments in thoughtful silence, then re- - 
marked in his deliberate way, as though he weighed 
every word carefully before giving it utterance, 
“There’s as purty and likely a bit o’ side-hill as 
you’d see in a week o’ Sundays adjoinin’ my clearin’, 
sile a good sticky clay loam, that’d last years with 
a little proper lookin’ after, but the clearin’s about as 
nasty as can be ; heavy yellow birch mostly, and 
a sight o’ brush an’ tops.” 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed Knowles, brightening visibly, 
“I’d like to see it. What’s the odds about the clear- 


74 ^ TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 

ing ? I can hire a man or two to help me for a couple 
of months, and in that time ” 

“They’d clear and get ready for, say, a potater 
crop about five acres at the most,” said Swartz, with 
a smile, “an’ they’d have to hustle to do it.” 

The long and short of it was that Knowles, who 
could hardly tell one soil from another, and had the 
vaguest and most hazy idea of handling an axe, saw 
the land, and on Swartz’s recommendation bought it, 
and persuaded Swartz to help him to clear it and build 
his log house. 

Swartz turned out a treasure, and under his 
direction Knowle.s, who possessed a tremendous 
capacity for work, especially for that kind requiring 
strong limbs and good lungs, and almost a genius 
for mechanical effort, soon swung as capable an axe 
as his instructor. 

By the end of the first month and a half, there were 
three acres cleared and burnt, a log house twenty by 
fifteen feet erected, and a smart team of horses stand- 
ing in a makeshift of a stable. 

Swartz was delighted with his new neighbor, who 
likewise was delighted with Swartz. Judging from his 
changed appearance, the new life suited him. His 
cheeks, so short a time before pale and hollow with 
office work and unhappiness, were bronzed by sun 
and wind ; a red stubble beard decorated his chin ; 
the muscles on his great lean arms stood out like 
knotted rope ; his chest development was magni- 
ficent ; his blue eyes sparkled ; he ate like two men, 
and worked like a Hercules. 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OP ION GO. 


75 


CHAPTER II. 

On or about the fifteenth day of October Knowles 
walked over to Jenkins’, distant two miles or so, to 
inquire for a parcel he was expecting- by stage. The 
parcel had not arrived ; instead of it, however, liquor 
had and news. Jenkins was as drunk as the pro- 
verbial lord and as jolly as a sand-boy. 

When drunk Jenkins was talkative. He button- 
holed Knowles ; he told him funny stories, omitting 
the point, and laughed uproariously ; he regaled him 
with anecdotes, verging on racy, of one Bridget 
Scully ; he offered to back a certain ring-boned, 
knock-kneed, spavined, broken-winded quadruped, — 
a horse by courtesy — against any son of a gun’s 
horse on the Opiongo ; he then executed a wavering 
and uncertain clog dance, winding up with a startling 
“ whoop ! ” and the assurance that they were “ all 
boys together,” and lived “on the same side of the 
fence. ” Finally, he seated himself on a chair, slipped 
from it to the floor, where he fell into a sound, and 
doubtless refreshing, slumber. In an outer room 
Knowles discovered young Jenkins, aged sixteen 
years and three months, in an equally maudlin state. 
In disgust he turned to go, and at the door was con- 
fronted by the hired man, with a mournful expression 


76 A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 

of countenance, his eyes filled with tears, who in- 
formed him in choked accents that he was a “jolly 
good fellow, and didn’t give a toss for no man.” In 
the front of the house he met Mrs. Jenkins with some 
washing on her arm ; she looked harassed and mis- 
erable, Knowles thought with ample reason. 

“Good-day, INIr. Knowles,” she said, “an’ have 
ye heerd the noos ? ” 

“None in particular, Mrs. Jenkins,” he replied. 

Mrs. Jenkins sighed, and mopped the perspiration 
from her forehead with her apron. 

“ Why, a gang come down from Lochran’s on the 
IMadawaska, say in’ that they left on account of the 
dipthery, which has broke out at one o’ the shan- 
ties.” 

“ Indeed ? ” 

“Ay, three men sickenin’ with it now, an’ a fourth 
died yesterday. Them hogs in the house,” jerking 
her thumb in the direction, “are fillin’ themselves up 
with liquor. Cuz the doctor told my man yesterday 
at Killaloe, that to drink a little whiskey was a good- 
thing to keep away the disease, he didn’t tell him to 
make a downright beast of himself.” 

The news did not trouble Knowles much at the 
time. He consoled himself with the reflection that in 
all likelihood, if there was any truth in the report, it 
was doubtless very much exaggerated, and bidding 
IMrs. Jenkins good-day, started on his return. Arrived 
at his clearing, he told Swartz, who looked grave on 
hearing it, and informed him that, eight or ten years 
before, an epidemic of diphtheria had broken out in 


A TRUE CMROAUCLE OF THE OPIONGO. 77 

the district, before which the settlers had been swept 
away like flies. 

There was little more said on the subject. The 
house was new and clean, and they, particularly 
Knowles, felt that the danger, if any, would be very 
slight, even should the disease appear, owing to the 
isolated position of the different farm-houses, the dis- 
trict being so very sparsely settled. Their nearest 
neighbor to the cast was Jenkins, and a mile further 
on in the same direction, were the Conways, at the 
foot of Front Lake ; while to the west lived the 
Dupuis, distant three-quarters of a mile ; next to 
them the Donaldsons ; opposite the Donaldsons, in a 
tumble-down shanty, an old bachelor, by name 
Tony Bartlett, — known through the district as old 
Tony ; still farther, a lumbering depot, a mile or so 
beyond old Tony’s, on the shore of Bark Lake. 

A week passed, and there was no further news of 
the diphtheria. Knowles forgot all about it, as he had 
many other things with which to occupy his mind. 
Swartz began to hope that it was a false alarm. 

Three days more passed. Knowles hired an extra 
hand to help at the clearing. He picked him up at 
the “stopping-place" on Jenkins’ recommendation. 

The morning after his arrival, while he and Swartz 
were felling a hemlock, the new hand stopped in his 
work a moment, a spasm as of pain shot across his 
face — he put his hand to his head. 

“ What’s up.? ’’ inquired Swartz, driving his axe 
into the butt. 

“I waked this mornin’ with the terriblest head- 


78 A TRUE ClJkOKlCLE OF 7 HE OPIONGO. 

ache an’ pains in my back, an’ my throat’s that 
sore. ” 

Swartz pulled his axe out, and felt the edge with 
his thumb. 

“ Where did ye come from .? ” he asked. 

“ One o’ Lochran’s camps on the INIadawaska, ” 
was the reply. 

Swartz retired, twenty feet or so, to a log, seated 
himself on it, filled and lighted his pipe. 

“I heerd tell,” he said slowly, “as how there 
was considerable sickness in one o’ them camps.” 

The new hand seated himself on an opposite 
log. 

“There is considerable, that’s why I left,” he re- 
plied. “I only stayed a week, when one o’ the 
mule-punchers died, then four more took ill — quinsy 
they said it was. Leastways, the doctor Lochran sent 
up said it were.” 

“Quinsy, eh ” 

The new hand rose slowly to his feet. 

“ Boss,” he said, “I’m too darned sick — I guess 
I’ll quit.” 

“Perhaps it's as well,” said Swartz. “ Where do 
ye live .? ” 

“About three mile this side o’ Killaloe.” 

Five minutes afterwards he slouched across the 
clearing, with his dunnage on his back, and dis- 
appeared round the first bend in the road. Then 
Swartz went into the house. On one of the window- 
sills was a can containing a dry lump of rosin, the 
remains of some which he had used, mixed with 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OE THE OP JONG 0 . 79 

grease, to patch a canoe. Taking a handful out he 
sprinkled it on the stove, then he stirred up the fire 
and opened the damper. Soon the whole house was 
filled with thick smoke and a strong aroma of burn- 
ing rosin. Swartz rushed out of doors coughing and 
rubbing his eyes, tripped over a log, and almost 
tumbled into Knowles’ arms. 

“ Hullo, Dick, what’s the matter now ” 

“ INIatter ! Why, the new hand’s took the hay- 
road.” 

“ Indeed ? ” 

Swartz nodded. “Aye — sick.” 

“ Sick, — what’s wrong with him.?” 

“ Head aching — pains in his back — an’ if I ain’t far 
wrong it’s the dipthery ; them’s the symptoms.” 

Knowles whistled. 

“ It may be the quinsy, of course,” said Swartz, 
“but I don't care about takin’ no chances, — I’ve 
been fumigating with rosin.’’ 

“Fumigating — rosin ?” 

“The doctor advised it, — or sulphur, when the 
dipthery was here before.” 

This little incident left them by no means as com- 
fortable as it had found them ; it seemed, too, to be 
a forerunner of bad weather. The sun went down 
in a great bank of clouds ; a raw east wind sprang 
up, bringing with it a fine drizzle. The next morn- 
ing the rain was falling in torrents, and continued all 
that day and the following one. On the third, which 
was a Wednesday, Swartz started off for Jenkins’, to 
try and borrow a cross-cut saw. About noon he 


So A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OTIONGO. 


returned with the saw — and information far from 
pleasant. 

“The new hand stayed at Jenkins’ over night,” he 
informed Knowles, “and drove to Killaloe by 
stage next day. You mind that young Joe Dupuis 
that’s workin’ for Jenkins, doin’ odd chores about? ” 

Knowles nodded. 

“He’s sickenin’ with it.” 

“ Diphtheria? ” 

“That’s about the size o’ it; an’ all hands drunk.” 

“You don’t say so ! ” 

“ I do, — worse luck, — an’ there’s no doubt about 
it this time, — the doctor’s bin up an’ seen him, an’ says 
it’s the dipthery he’s got, — however he come by it.” 

On Saturday morning, old Tony called in passing. 
Knowles and Swartz were busily employed, in front 
of the house, making scoops for a shed-roof. 

“Good-day,” said old Tony. He looked melan- 
choly but important. 

The two men addressed paused in their work and 
nodded. 

“Well, Tony,” said Swartz, “ an’ what’s the best 
word with you ? ” 

“The best word ain’t much to brag on, Dick.” 
Tony’s whole voice and manner smacked somewhat 
of the sepulchre. 

“That’s bad.” 

“Joe Dupuis went home sick last night.” 

His hearers looked interested. 

“ And died this morning at five o’clock. At seven 
his brother an’ one o’ the women buried him in the 


A trVe chronicle oe the opiongo. 8 i 

field back o' the house. Doctor said to bury him at 
once. ” 

His hearers were horrified. 

“ Yes/’ continued the old man, shaking his head, 
“a rugged chunk o’ a lad like him to go that sud- 
den t, — it’s a terror.” 

“ Had they a good doctor.? ” inquired Knowles. 

“Aye, good enough when sober, but he’s easy led, 
more’s the pity, — an’ now he says one o’ the others 
got it, — a little girl. It’s an old stuffy kind o’ place, 
an’ now the sickness is in it, it’ll take God A’mighty 
Himself to clear it.” 

Then old Tony bid them good-day and left them 
to digest the bad news as best they might. Two 
days later the little girl died, and Mrs. Dupuis and her 
other two daughters got it. Then more bad weather 
set in, and for a week Knowles could do little but sit 
in the house and smoke — and think. That played 
the mischief with him. As long as he had plenty of 
hard, tiring work to do, he was, comparatively speak- 
ing, happy ; when that was denied him he thought 
of Ethel March, — and was not comforted. He dis- 
covered that the life which he had selected to live, 
like most others, had its drawbacks. Monotony was 
its worst feature. In desperation he made a checker- 
board, and he and Swartz played draughts till he 
loathed the very thought of the game. Of course 
he could talk — with Swartz. And he did, of diphtheria 
and the weather, and, apart from these exhilarating 
subjects, there was but little else — with the exception 
of farming. 


82 A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE ORION GO. 


The mist and rain wrapped the hills, the lake was 
hidden by the vapour ; some few black, withered 
leaves still clung to the sad poplars, and rustled dis- 
tressingly. The road became a slough. It was not 
gay. Conversation flagged, — grew balky, — stopped 
altogether. Swartz, chin on hands, elbows on knees, 
smoked like some sooty chimney. Then the real 
hideousness of the life, — the loneliness, — the desola- 
tion, — sprang up like a phantom, and mocked at 
him. 

Once or twice Knowles put his overcoat on, and 
walked for miles, but his thoughts, bitter and sweet 
alike, kept pace with him. The week dragged its 
weary length to a close ; he wakened one morning, 
the sun was shining ! He sprang from his bed, 
and actually whistled as he fed the live-stock. 
Breakfast over, he rushed to his work. 

That morning he positively forgot everything, — 
diphtheria, love-madness, all, except that the sun 
shone, that he lived, that he was a man with a man's 
life to live, and a man’s work to do. 

Shortly after midday, Swartz, who had passed the 
night at his own farm, returned with gloomy looks. 
Mrs. Dupuis had died on Tuesday last, after a five 
days’ illness ; the two children had died the day be- 
fore, a boy was the only one left in the family, and 
he had fled in terror, no one knew whither. Mrs. 
Donaldson had it ; three men at the depot were ill ; 
out of a family of nine seven had died at a place 
called Rockingham on the Madawaska. Killaloe 
had three cases. 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OP THE OPIONGO. 83 

In the district there were two doctors : one gener- 
ally drunk, though competent enough when sober ; 
the other, according to report, incompetent, sober or 
otherwise. The competent inebriate lived twenty 
miles away ; the incompetent abstainer, twenty-six. 
The roads were little better than impassable : — the 
settlers’ predicament may be imagined. 

Knowles flung down his axe, and became — for the 
first time in his life — fluent, nay, almost eloquent. 

“Cannot the government do something.? Can’t 
they send proper medical aid.? Are we all to die 
like dogs ? etc., etc., etc.” 

Swartz smoked in moody silence. He was well 
aware that the government would do something — 
like all other governments — when it was too late ; 
when half the settlers were dead, they would doubt- 
less take measures to stamp out the disease — and 
save the other half. 

Swartz knew this perfectly, — most men who live 
under any form of government know it. 

Knowles was for organizing relief parties, and act- 
ually wrote the government a letter, replete with 
feeling, which doubtless found its way into a De- 
partmental waste-paper basket. Swartz approved the 
letter, and conclusively showed the folly and danger 
of other than proper medical aid. 

On the sixth of November ]\Irs. Donaldson died, and 
there was a report that the Conways had it. Knowles 
and Swartz did not talk as much of the scourge as 
they had done, and referred to it as “it” when they 
did. In the mornings Knowles went through the 


84 ^ true chronicle of the opiongo. 

process ofswallowing, on first awakening, to discover 
the state of his throat ; very likely, Swartz did the 
same. It is within the bounds of probability that 
every human being in the settlement, old enough to 
appreciate the danger of the situation, did likewise. 

It was about this time that Ethel March did some 
more of her she-devil’s work. From a common friend 
she learned Knowles’ address, and wrote him just 
such a letter as she knew would touch him, telling 
him of another admirer she had : how that she 
found him tiring, that she would be pleased to see 
her great bear again, and why had he gone without 
a word .? — with much else in the same vein. Why 
she wrote it, heaven and one woman alone know. 
She had no earthly intention of marrying him, and 
fortunately, or otherwise (the reader may judge), 
Knowles knew it. Still it brought the past before 
him with a cruel vividness — that wonderful past, 
with all its sweetness, all its bitterness. He had 
called at Jenkins’ that morning, and he read and re- 
read her letter as he returned to his clearing. 

When within a hundred yards of it he met Swartz 
trudging along with his dunnage on his back, a rifle, 
which Knowles remembered to have seen him place 
in the corner of his room, under his arm, and upon 
his face an expression of portentous gravity. The 
two men came suddenly upon each other at a turn 
in the road. 

Swartz stopped short at a distance of about twenty 
yards, dropped his dunnage bag, and held up his 
hand. 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE ORION GO. 85 

“Stop ! ” he cried in a sharp, loud voice. 

Knowles did so in much bewilderment, and stared 
at him. 

“ You’ll have to get another hand, Mr. Knowles, 
I’ve quit,” he said. 

“What in heaven’s name’s the matter, man? ” 

A miserable look came into Swartz’s face. 

“I’ve got ‘it,’” he replied, with a weak attempt at 
a smile, “ an’ there ain’t no sense in your gettin’ 
it, — leastways that I can see.” 

Knowles was terribly shocked, but he hid his feel- 
ings wonderfully well. 

“Where are you going, Dick ? ” he asked gravely. 

“ Home,” was the reply. 

“ And who’s going to look after you ? ” 

Swartz shrugged his shoulders, and stooped to pick 
up his dunnage bag ; Knowles took a step forward. 

“ Dick,” he said, “ I didn’t believe that of you.” 

It was Swartz’s turn to be surprised. 

“ What have I done ? Ain’t I try in’ to do the best 
I can ? — an’ God knows it ain’t any too easy. What 
don’t you believe ? ” 

“That you’d ever think so poorly of me as to 
imagine, for an instant, that I’d not look after you 
if you got ‘ IT ’ ; just as you would after me ” 

“ I wouldn’t,” interrupted Swartz. 

Knowles continued without paying any heed to 
the words : 

“ Just as you would after me if I were the unlucky 
one. You see I’m more generous than you are.” 
He stepped forward, as he finished speaking. 


86 A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 


Swartz became excited. As Knowles approached, 
he retreated. 

“Stop, Mr. Knowles, — stop, man dear, don’t be a 
fool, — stop, I tell you.” 

Knowles steadily advanced. Of a sudden Swartz 
changed his tactics ; he stood still, up went his 
rifle ! Knowles looked firmly down the glittering 
tube. 

Swartz’s face grew livid. 

“ Stop, or, by God ! I’ll put a bullet through you.” 

“ No — no, Dick : you’ll not shoot your best 
friend,” Knowles replied, and walked directly up to 
him. 

Slowly the rifle was lowered till the butt rested on 
the ground, and Swartz, with a dogged expression on 
his face, leaned wearily on the muzzle. 

Knowles rested his hand on his shoulder. 

“Dick,” he said very gently, “there’s not one 
man in a thousand would have behaved with such 
generosity. It’s my turn now, — back to my place you 
go, — no sense in carrying infection anywhere else ; 
— quick, march.” 

Back accordingly they went. Arrived there and 
Swartz as comfortably installed in one of the rooms 
as possible, Knowles tacked a sheet of paper on the 
front door, and on it printed the single word — 

“DIPHTHERIA.” 

There was no need of more. 

Then Knowles saddled a horse, and rode for the 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 87 

competent inebriate, as though the evil one were at 
his heels. 

Strange to say, he found him in a state of mourn- 
ful sobriety , — pro lem., but could not persuade him 
to come and see Swartz before the following day, 
owing to several other calls he had to make. He, 
however, explained to Knowles the proper treat- 
ment, provided him with the necessary medicine, 
gave him a fresh horse in exchange for his tired one, 
and, by eight o’clock that evening, the by no means 
pleasant solitude of the sick man was gladdened 
by the return of his friend. 

In answer to Knowles’ question as to how he felt, 
he said that his headache was better, but that the 
soreness in his throat had increased, that during the 
afternoon he had been troubled a good deal with 
coughing ; and he again did his best to persuade 
Knowles to leave him, assuring him that he could 
attend to himself perfectly well without anybody’s 
assistance ; but Knowles only shook his head and 
smiled. 

The following day, about noon, the doctor called, 
comparatively sober, examined the patient’s throat, 
and pronounced it without doubt diphtlieria, left 
directions as to treatment with Knowles, and turued 
to go. Knowles followed him outside the house. 

“ Is he very sick .? ” he inquired. 

The doctor looked at him and nodded. 

" lie’s a goner,” he said, “ and the best thing you 
can do is to dig out. I'he country’s rotten with it ; 
any man that can leave, and does not, is a raving 


88 A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 


fool.” Then he stepped into his trap, touched his 
horse with the whip, and rattled away. 

Knowles looked after him with an expression of 
scorn on his honest face. 

All that evening and the next day Swartz seemed 
so much better, that, despite what the doctor had 
said, Knowles began to hope for him. 

At about four o’clock the second morning he was 
awakened from a sound sleep by some noise. He 
sat up in bed, and listened. The sound was of some 
one choking. It came from Swartz’s room, which was 
divided from his by a thin board partition. A min- 
ute later Knowles had lighted the lamp, and stood 
by the sick-bed. Swartz was resting on his elbows, 
his tongue protruding slightly from his mouth, and 
was in the last stages of strangulation. Knowles 
stared at him in agony, but could do nothing. 

For a minute longer the choking continued, then 
the dying man sank heavily back, the labored 
breathing ceased, — another victim had fallen to the 
scourge. 

For a few moments Knowles stood gazing in awed 
silence upon what had once been a friend. He re- 
called to mind his honesty, his faithfulness, his 
rough kindness. 

Then the loneliness of his own position, the hor- 
ror of it, assailed him as it had never done before. 
Fie was worse now than an outcast, he was a leper 
among his kind, — for a time at least. Thoughts 
more awful still came to him. Might not he, too, in 
a few short days, lie stark and dead, as it, that he 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 89 

had once called friend, now lay ? He shuddered. 
He had that horror of death that all young, healthy 
human beings ought to have. By an effort he 
arroused himself sufficiently to recognize the neces- 
sity of fresh air, and opened the windows ; then he 
raked up the fire, put a handful of sulphur on the 
stove, and lighting a lanthorn, went out to a shed 
where he had some boards and tools. He had work 
to do, horrible work. He had to make a coffin for 
his friend. The sooner he was buried the better. 
He worked deliberately and manfully ; in an hour 
he had a rough deal box, seven feet by two and a 
half made. Then he harnessed a horse to a rude 
jumper sleigh, and drove the box up to the door. His 
next task was the most terrible of all. He walked 
into the room, and, wrapping the body in one of the 
blankets, carried it out and laid it gently and rever- 
ently in the rough coffin. Then, lanthorn in hand, 
— for it was still dark, — he drove it to a remote 
corner of his clearing, where he dug poor Swartz’s 
grave, and into it carefully lowered the coffin. 
Taking a prayer-book from his pocket, he removed 
his hat, and holding the lanthorn so as to throw light 
on the page, with the great dark trees about him, 
and a million of stars watching overhead, in a 
solemn hushed voice, read the service for the dead. 

Then as though impelled by a higher power, he 
fell upon his knees and prayed, — prayed as he had 
never done before ; for the dead man’s soul, for his 
own, that Almighty God would lead him in safety 
through that dread valley of the shadow of death, 


90 A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 

through which he, too, at that moment, might be 
passing. 

The day was just beginning to break as he rose 
from his knees. He seized his spade, and in a few 
minutes his task was done. As he finished it the 
glorious sun arose and bathed the great rocky hill- 
tops with a golden light, and threw long purple 
shadows into the valleys, and changed the surface 
of the slumbering lake to burnished silver. While he 
walked back to his lonely dwelling, the weird quav- 
ering cry of a loon came from the misty distance 
and cheered him in his desolation with its wild liv- 
ing note. 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OR THE OPIONGO. 


91 


CHAPTER III. 

The next week to John Knowles was neither 
more nor less than a hideous nightmare. Every 
day he worked, carted away stones, felled great 
trees, and toiled as he always did when troubled, 
like the very incarnation of unrest. There was one 
thing that poor Knowles was not, he was not self- 
sufficient, he lacked self-resources. His only known 
panacea for all ills was physical exhaustion and 
what produces it. Had he lost his right arm in- 
stead of his companion, it is not unlikely that he 
would also have lost his mind. As it was, with 
limbs intact, he slashed and hewed, and did won- 
ders, from a physical standpoint, while he ate his 
heart out, and his thirsty soul cried for the sweet 
wine of human kindness. So Knowles laboured, 
and wondered if he too were going to die. He 
dreaded the solitude, the emptiness, of that house, 
which he, with his dogged obstinacy, persisted in 
calling, and looking upon, as home. Such a home ! 
— his whole being rebelled against it, but he tram- 
pled upon his inner consciousness, and in his lion’s 
way beat it down, till he thought he had conquered 
even feeling. It was then that he acquired a deadly 
habit — a tearing of his heartstrings. Coiujuered feel- 
ing, had he? He was but learning to feel, learning to 


92 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 


appreciate a refined agony of feeling, to understand 
what hopelessness meant. He was naturally affec- 
tionate, a lover of his kind, yet of his own free will 
he had elected to live a life of solitude, to drag out a 
weary round of existence. The present is the only 
state we are, and can be, absolutely positive about, 
let persons say what they please. It is man’s duty 
to make the most, the best, out of this present. Let 
the morrow take care of itself ; do your duty, and 
leave the rest to God. The habit Knowles had ac- 
quired was that of reflection, and the question — are 
you making the best of your life? — troubled him as 
it always has every thinking creature ; and, as 
is the way with every thinking creature, he could 
not tell to a certainty, but he had grave, very 
grave doubts. At that time, too, he read Ethel 
IMarch’s letter much oftener than he should have 
done. Still worse, he began reading — what was not 
written — between the lines, and interpreting the 
same, which was sheer folly, nothing more. 

Pardon a simile. 

If ever a man tumbles into a very deep hole, 
say a well, and looks up to see a little patch of sky 
overhead, he becomes dissatisfied, particularly if 
the hole be damp. He longs to get out, to get a little 
nearer the blue sky, to broaden his horizon ; and 
the chances are a hundred to one that sooner or 
later he will make the necessary attempt to do so. 
John Knowles was in a very deep hole, indeed, and 
Ethel March’s by no means clever letter was to him 
that little patch of blue sky. He, like the occupant 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE ORIONGO. 93 

of the well, longed to get out, and to broaden his 
horizon. 

That longing had not shaped itself into words, but 
it was there all the same, boiling and seething like a 
witch’s caldron. 

One day towards the end of the week, Knowles, in 
his shirt-sleeves, axe on shoulder, was returning from 
a hunt after cedar for fence-rails, when he met the 
incompetent inebriate, driving. 

“Good-day,” said Knowles. 

The doctor nodded and pulled up. “You’re still 
here,” he remarked. 

Knowles did not like the man. He shrugged his 
shoulders without replying, and would have passed 
on, but the doctor began again to speak. 

“Look here,” he said, “take my advice and 
leave this God-forsaken place at once. You’ve had 
the closest call of any man I know, nursing Swartz 
as you did.” 

“ How about my farm ? ” 

“Sell it.” 

Knowles smiled sarcastically. 

“Sell it to Lochran, buy a new suit of clothes, 
burn all your old ones, and leave, or you may be 
sorry. ” 

The doctor drove on. 

“ Leave, or you may be sorry.” The words kept 
recurring to him for days afterwards ; he thought of 
Swartz’s death and shuddered. He looked through 
the rain and the mist at the great dead rampikes ; at 
the bare, lonely hills, the leafless poplars, and the 


94 A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 

desolation ; the shorn hideousness — emblematic of 
his own barren life — filled him with forebodings. 

The settlers were still ^ying, right and left. From 
one end to the other of the Opiongo, houses were 
closed. White, hopeless faces of dying men, women, 
and children looked out from closed windows into 
that world so many would never know again. Still 
the district was neglected — left to the care of one 
drunken brute, and a more useless sober one. Occa- 
sionally Knowles saw newspapers from the outside 

world. The town of T , he read, was threatened 

by a similar outbreak. On the first appearance of 
the disease, boards of health were called, and medical 
aid was insisted upon by the government. While 
here, Knowles fumed and raved, and sent his mite 
towards the filling of that Departmental waste-paper 
basket, as above mentioned. 

Several days after his conversation with the doctor 
he met Lochran’s agent. He n?et him every week 
or so, going to, or coming from, the depot or camps. 
The doctor’s advice as to selling the farm occurred 
to him ; in fact, it had been but seldom absent from 
his thoughts. 

He had paid $300 down for the land ; the improve- 
ments — house, stable, shed, and fence — he valued at 
another $500. A round thousand would cover every- 
thing, excepting the live-stock. 

He got into conversation with the agent, and 
informed him that he wished to sell. It so hap- 
pened that Lochran wanted a farm to supply hay and 
oats for his mules and horses. It is possible the 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONCO. 95 

doctor knew this when he mentioned his name to 
Knowles. 

“ How many acres have you cleared?” inquired 
the agent. 

Knowles told him. 

“ Let us have a look at it.” 

Accordingly they walked over it together. 

“How much do you want for it, including live 
stock?” 

“Fifteen hundred dollars.” 

“That’s a goodish bit,” said the agent. 

“Take it or leave it,” said Knowles, with affected 
unconcern. 

“ I’ll give you fourteen hundred.” 

Knowles shook his head and began leisurely to fill 
his pipe. 

“ I'll tell you to-morrow.” Away went the agent. 

Knowles slept not a wink that night ; he sat and 
thought till daybreak ; then he read Ethel March’s 
letter again, and discovered much between the 
lines. 

The next day, while he was working on his fence, 
the agent called. 

“Improvin’.? — that’s right,” he said, seating him- 
self on a boulder. 

Knowles nodded and continued his work. He 
felt horribly nervous. To sell meant liberty. His 
heart beat like a hammer ; outwardly he appeared 
wonderfully indifferent. 

“ So you’ve made up your mind to sell ? ” 

Knowles shrugged his shoulders. 


96 A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OTIONGO. 

“I’ll tell you what — call it $1,450, an’ it’s a 
bargain ? ” 

Knowles laughed, “ $1,500 or nothing.” 

“You’re mighty tight,” said the agent, looking at 
him out of the corner of his eyes. 

“It’s worth it,” said Knowles. 

“Maybe ’tis, an’ agin maybe ’tain’t.” The agent 
punctuated his remarks with thoughtful expectora- 
tion. 

Knowles fitted a rail in place, and stepped back a 
little to inspect. 

The agent glanced again at him, rose to his feet 
and buttoned up his coat. Knowles’ feelings sank to 
zero. Was he going without another word ? It cer- 
tainly looked like it. He walked away ten paces or 
so. Knowles fitted in another rail, and, to all outward 
appearances, was not aware of the possible pur- 
chaser’s retreat. The agent returned. 

“ It’s a neat fence you’re puttin’ up.” 

“Not too rusty,” said Knowles, shouldering a 
post. 

The agent expectorated. “How much did you 
say you wanted .? ” 

‘ ‘ Fifteen hundred. ” 

“ Done with you, — payable in three months. 
Guess Lochran’s name’s good ? ” 

Knowles with difficulty restrained himself from 
cheering. A ton’s weight seemed to fall from his 
shoulders at the words, scales dropped from his eyes, 
he saw and realized to the full what such a life, 
dragged out in never varying sameness, month after 


A TRUE CJIRONICLE OF THE OP/ONGO. 97 

month, year after year, away from his equals, was, 
and must eventually mean. 


“ Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay” 

So sang the poet — so to all intents and purposes 
sang Knowles. When the agent had taken his de- 
parture, he went into his house, and wrote a letter to 

it is needless to say, to whom. Such a letter ! 

— silly, silly fool. 

But then he had read so much between the lines, 
so much — — Ah ! he was stupid. 

The letter written, away he went hot foot to 
post it. 

He had never felt better or happier in his life. 
There was a slight rain falling, the sky was overcast, 
but he thought the sun was shining. There never 
had been such a day, — never, since the beginning of 
all things, such a glorious, exhilarating day ! 

He stopped for a drink at the brook which runs 
under the cross-logging, and, bending over it, saw 
his own happy ugly face in it, and grinned at the 
reflection. Then up the long hill he went — breast- 
ing it like a stag. You’d have thought it was a 
ladder to heaven he had found, he walked so joyously. 

Arrived at Jenkins’, he inquired about the stage, 
and was informed that it would leave the next morn- 
ing at six o’clock ; he turned to go — paused at the 
door. 

“ How is the diphtheria .? ” he inquired. 

“ Old Tony Bartlett’s got it,” was the reply. 

7 


98 A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 

“ Poor old Tony — who’s looking after him ? ” 
Jenkins shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Guess he’s looking after himself ; there ain’t no 
one round here, as I knows of, blamed fool enough 
to risk his life for a useless old tramp like Tony — 
leastways, I wouldn’t. The doctor’s brought him 
physic, let him tend to himself; others a’ done it 
afore now, an ’ll have to do it agin. ” 

John Knowles looked Jenkins up and down. There 
was little admiration in the glance. 

“ I hope you will never die for the want of a little 
nursing, Mr. Jenkins,” said the Lion, and strode 
away. 

Jenkins looked after him with a nasty light in his 
eyes. He noted the broad shoulders, the long stride, 
the resolute bearing, and eased his mind by the 
utterance of a few choice expletives, addressed ap- 
parently to the universe at large, Knowles being 
well out of hearing. He then retired to the sanctity 
of his own kitchen, where he cursed a small boy, who 
had just brought in an armful of wood, kicked his 
dog out by the back door, and finally soothed his 
agitation by a copious draught of whiskey, and an 
earnest prayer to his Satanic Majesty that Knowles 
would die at an early date. 

INI ean while the cause of all this hullabaloo was 
walking back along the road by no means as briskly 
as he had come, with a thoughtful expression on his 
face. 

****** 

Two hours later old Tony, lying in a half doze with 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE ORION GO. 99 

several yards of dirty flannel wrapped round his 
hairy old throat, was aroused by a knock at the 
door. 

“The doctor, I suppose,” he muttered, and called 
in a weak voice, “ Come in.” 

Enter stupidity ! 

Tony sat bolt upright, — astonishment gave him 
strength. For a moment he stared speechless, then 
he gave tongue : 

“Mr. Knowles! Mr Knowles!” he screamed. 
“ Holy Moses ! get out of this, man dear. I’ve got it, 
don’t you know ? — the dipthery. God A’mighty ! 
you’ll get it. You’re a dead man. Get out — get out.” 
With outstretched shaking hand he pointed to the 
door. 

Knowles, by way of answer, seated himself on the 
one chair the establishment could boast of, and 
smiled. 

Tony was a good soul — he implored him to leave. 
Knowles begged him not to get excited ; conse- 
quently, old Tony grew still more excited. Knowles 
lighted his pipe and smoked ; Tony cooled down. 

“'What have you come here for.?” he inquired. 

“To look after you,” was the reply. 

Tony collapsed. 

Two days later the doctor called ; Knowles opened 
the door for him ; the doctor gasped. 

“ You here ! ” he exclaimed. 

Knowles filled up most of the doorway, and cer- 
tainly would have given the most sceptical the 
impression of being very much there. 


100 A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 

“Are you mad?” was the doctor’s next inquiry, 
justifiable under the circumstances. 

Knowles blushed, shrugged his shoulders, and 
said he hoped not. 

“ What are you doing ? ” 

“Looking after Tony.” 

The doctor whistled, but said nothing more save 
that the patient was doing well, — much better, in 
fact, than he had expected to find him. 

For two terrible weeks Knowles stayed in that 
wretched hovel, cooked for the sick man, waited on 
him hand and foot, and, — so the doctor said — saved 
his life. Tony was out of danger. There was no 
earthly reason why Knowles should stay any longer, 
so he left. 

Once more the light of renewed hope filled his 
eyes. Nothing could stop him now ; the stage left at 
the beginning of the next week ; he would go by it. 

The following day was Wednesday. He employed 
his time by doing a little more fencing. Thursday 
and Friday passed away ; they were long days — 
but happy ones. 

Friday night he had a strange dream. An angel 
appeared to him, and, taking him by the hand, told 
him he would now have his heart’s desire, and 
began leading him away. 

He awakened, a smile of happiness forming itself 
upon his lips. 

The day was just breaking ; he raised his head a 
little from the pillow, then let it fall back again with 
a slight moan. 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPJONGO. loi 


His head was aching as though it would split ; in 
his throat he felt a strange tickling sensation. 

He sat up in bed, and clasped his temples with his 
hands. On his white face was a look of anguish — 
in his heart misery and despair. 

It had come to him at last! 

He looked about the room with a vacant agony in 
his eyes, and shuddered. For once in his life, for 
a few moments, terror held him in its horrid grip. 
He moaned, and, holding his face in his hands, sat 
motionless for a time. 

Then he rose from the bed, with some of the old 
manliness shining in his face, and dressed himself. 
Putting on a heavy overcoat, and wrapping some- 
thing warm about his throat, he harnessed his horse, 
and drove rapidly to the doctor’s. Arrived at the 
door, he knocked, and then retired twenty yards. 
A slatternly looking woman opened it, and in answer 
to his question, “Is the doctor at home ? ” informed 
him that he was not, but would be back that even- 
ing or the next day. 

“Please tell him that Mr. Knowles is very ill, and 
would like to see him at once. ” 

The woman promised to do so, and Knowles 
drove away. 

The next day, Sunday, his headache had almost 
gone ; he felt better, though his throat was much more 
painful. In the afternoon the doctor called, said he 
was doing well, that he need not be alarmed, and 
left him the required medicine, promising to call 
again on Tuesday. 


102 A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OTIONGO. 


On Monday night Knowles’ condition changed — 
and changed very much for the worse. On Tues- 
day morning he was seized with violent coughing. 
In the afternoon the doctor called, examined 
his ])atient, and shook his head. That night he 
stayed at the depot, and called again on Wednesday. 
Knowles was if anything a little worse : his breathing 
w:is becoming labored, the fits of coughing were 
more frequent. He was reading his Bible when the 
doctor entered. He looked up with a quiet smile, 
and in a weak voice said : 

“I want you to tell me whether I am going to 
live or die. Do not be afraid of alarming me — but 
only tell me the truth.” 

The doctor looked at him earnestly, his little pale 
blue eyes filled with honest tears. 

“Mr. Knowles,” he said in a choked voice, 
are going io die.” 

For a moment Knowles looked out of the window 
— it was a bright cold day — at the blue sky and the 
sunlight on the trees ; then he spoke again : 

“I knew it,” he said. 

Shortly afterwards the doctor went away, promis- 
ing to call again in the evening. 

* ♦ * * * * 

When the doctor left Knowles, he was most decid- 
edly upset ; he drove to the depot, where he found 
Lochran’s agent just returned from the town of 

O , where he had been transacting business for 

the firm. The agent had brought back with him a 
case of excellent Scotch whiskey. 


A TRUE CHRONICLE OF THE OPIONGO. 103 

The doctor’s grief was most decidedly thirsty. To 
make a long story short, he got drunk and remained 
so till Friday morning, when he arose sober, and re- 
pentant. After breakfast he drove to Knowles’ house, 
opened the door and walked in. All was silent. He 
entered the bedroom. Knowles lay much as he had 
left him, propped up with pillows, his Bible open 
upon his lap. The doctor stepped softly to the bed- 
side, and laid his hand upon his shoulder. John 
Knowles had finished his work : he was sione dead! 

INIechanically he picked up the Bible. His eye was 
attracted to a text which he read. It was this : 

“ Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of 
these My brethren, ye did it unto ]\Ie.” 

From between the leaves something fluttered to 
the bed. It was the portrait of a beautiful girl in a 
ball dress, with the face of an angel, and great dark 
serious eyes. 

Across the corner of the photograph the initials 
“ E. M.” were written in a feminine hand. 

****** 

There was one thing that Ethel IMarch had omitted 
to mention in that very ordinary letter of hers, 
namely, that she had promised to marry that last 
admirer who slightly bored her. Her reason was 
an excellent one : he possessed ten thousajid a year! 




TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


CHAPTER I. 

AaiI't the beginning of April, in the year 1890, in 
the smoking-room of the Travellers’ Club, there sat a 
blue-eyed, fair-complexioned, young Englishman, by 
the name of Richard Carew, with a fragrant cigar 
between his lips and the latest number of Punch open 
upon his knees. Just as he turned over the last 
page a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with a 
flower in his button-hole, sauntered in, caught 
Carew’s eye and bowed. He was a hearty, cheerful 
looking individual, with kindly steady eyes, who, if 
one can judge at all by appearances, looked as though 
he thoroughly enjoyed life. 

It is very probable that he did. He possessed 
/"i 0,000 a year, an excellent digestion, — which the 
ignorant erroneously term a good heart, — and a 
baronetcy. He was in his twenty-eighth year, and so 
far had escaped matrimony. Certainly, he had much 
to be thankful for. 

He drew an arm-chair to the cheery fire burning 
at the end of the room, lit a cigarette, thrust his long 
legs out to their fullest extent, and prepared to be 
comfortable, 


io6 TO BEDLAM AND BACA' 

Carew laid the Punch on the table, and rising 
strolled over to the fireplace, flicked the ash off his 
cigar with his little finger, turned his broad shoulders 
to the blaze, and remarked : 

“Beastly weather ! ” 

“ Shocking bad,” was the reply. 

The two men smoked in silence for a few mo- 
ments, 

“I say, Wortley,” said Carew, “heard devilish 
rum yarn last night at the Athenseum. Travers spun 
it. You know Travers : tall, fair-haired chap, wil- 
lowy legs and a stoop. Clever beggar : writes for the 
Saturday ! ” 

“ Yes, I recollect the man ; met him last October 
grouse-shooting. Devilish neat shot.” 

“ Shot ! Don’t look much like a shot.” 

“He is though, very good, indeed.” 

“Well, the yarn he told me knocks any cock-eyed 
I ever heard. You know the old boy’s as full of 
fads as any old woman of aches and pains, and his 
latest is the study of the supernatural. Well, it 
appears some Johnny or other, whom he was talking 
to, informed him, with a grin, that if ghosts were his 
game all he had to do was to put up at a house in 
INIorton Gardens, — No 2. That it had been standing 
empty for five years, or thereabouts, and was chuck 
full of ghosts and all that sort of truck. Well, what 
does the old boy do but stay there overnight, about 
a week ago ; and this is what he told me, and says 
he is willing to swear to. He said the house was 
old and very much out of repair ; that at the head 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


107 


of the stairs there is a big double room divided by 
heavy portieres. In it he found a decent enough 
arm-chair, standing in front of an old fireplace, be- 
fore which lay a good-sized pile of wood. Build- 
ing a fire, Travers proceeded to make himself com- 
fortable. He had brought with him half a dozen 
candles, a flask of Scotch, another large one filled 
with water, his pipe and baccy, a novel to review, 
and a revolver. 

“All went on pleasantly enough till midnight, when 
suddenly he said he felt a curious sort of chill run 
through him, and, why he could not tell, he turned 
and looked at the portieres. They were slowly 
drawn aside without the faintest sound, and the next 
instant a figure, dim and indistinct, like the figure of 
a woman, stood before him. He said he felt as 
though his hair was standing on end. He was too 
horror-stricken to speak, but sat staring at the appa- 
rition for what seemed an hour, till, silently as it had 
come, it disappeared. Travers says he has had 
enough of the supernatural for the present, and 
wouldn’t take twenty pounds to pass such a night 
again.” 

“ Didn’t know the old chap was subject to the 
D. T.’s.” 

“ D. T.’s be hanged !” 

“ Do you mean to tell me, Carew, that you be- 
lieve such utter bunkum ? If he hadn’t been drinking 
he’d been taking opium. Those chaps who write 
often get into that habit. ” 

“ No, I don’t believe he ever takes opium, and I 


I o3 TO BEDLAM A ND BA CK. 

know he seldom drinks. It is certainly deuced 
strange. ” 

“ Pshaw ! it's his imagination.” 

“Look here, old chap, would you pass a night 
alone in that house ? ” 

“Yes, I think I would.” 

‘ ‘ Well, I wouldn’t, and I’ll bet a pound you wouldn’t 
last the night.” 

“ Make it five pounds.” 

‘ ‘ All right, a fiver. ” 

“ Done with you.” 

“ Where are Travers’ rooms } ” 

“ Don’t know, but you’re sure to find him at the 
Athenaeum about five. He’s always there playing 
billiards with What’s-his-name at that hour.” 

“ I’ll look him up this afternoon.” 

“ By the way, are you going to Lady Simpson’s 
this evening ? ” 

Wortley shook his head. 

“ No, I think not. Too much Browning you know. 
Never read a line of Browning in my life ; never 
intend to, life’s too short. ” 

Carew laughed. 

“Well, I will. Elise Seaward will be there. Pretty 
little American woman, heaps of go. Old stick-in- 
the-mud Worsley’s awfully gone on her. The old 
duffer’s lots of tin ; made soap or soda-water or some- 
thing ; little American can’t stand him though. PIullo ! 
there’s Hazdewood,” as a tall, dark-bearded man 
entered the hall, into which they could see from 
their position in the smoking-room. “Thought he 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


109 


was in Norway, or Patagonia, or somewhere. Must 
go and talk to the old boy. Ta ta, Wortley, ” and 
Carew went after the gentleman from Patagonia or 
somewhere. 

Wortley, left to himself, lighted a cigar and began 
pondering over his bet ; and the more he thought of 
it, the less he liked it. 

“ Nice mess I’m in,” he mused. “For a miserable 
five pounds I’m to spend a night in a tumbledown 
sort of place, that has been empty for the Lord knows 
how long. Upon my soul, even here, the very 
thought of that woman pulling aside the portieres 
makes me feel squeamish. Of course it’s all nonsense. 
That old muddle-headed Travers must have been 
dreaming. Devilish uncanny ! Wish to heaven I 
hadn’t made the bet. Have to see it through now, 
though. That beggar Carew would chaff the life out 
of me if I didn’t.” He glanced at his watch. “ By 
Jove ! it’s half-past four, time to see Travers.” 

A few minutes later he hailed a passing hansom. 

“To the Athenmum Club,” he said, jumping in. 

Wortley was in luck. He had just paid his cab-fare, 
when another hansom drew up, and out of it stepped 
Travers, who nodded to our hero. 

“The very man I wanted to see. Come in and 
have a B. and S. This weather takes it out of one.” 

“Thank you,” said Travers ; “ don’t mind if I do.” 

When they were comfortably ensconced in easy- 
chairs in the delightful smoking-room of that most 
delightful of clubs, each puffing a fragrant cigarette, 
Wortley remarked : 


1 10 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


“Just left Carew at the Travellers’ ; told me awful 
rum yarn of which you were the hero. ” 

Travers blew a ring of smoke from his lips, 
watched it float slowly upwards, and said : 

“ Indeed ? ’’ 

“About a haunted house you know, in some gar- 
dens, Forget the name exactly. Morton, I think, or 
Horton .? ” 

“I wish Carew hadn’t said anything about it. 
One doesn’t care about being discussed as the hero 
of anything so ridiculous to nineteenth century 
ideas, as a ghost story. ” He smiled. “You know. 
Wortley, even a journalist would like to maintain a 
reputation for soberness or saneness.” 

Wortley felt a little guilty, remembering what he 
had jokingly said about D. T.’s and opium. 

The man beside him seemed to read his thought. 
He continued : 

“ I was not ‘in liquor,’ as our friends to the east- 
ward would say ; and although I admire De Quincey, 
I am not sufficiently his disciple to follow his mad 
lead.” He paused and puffed thoughtfully at his 
cigarette for a few moments. “On my honor, 
Wortley,” — he turned to him with a solemn look on his 
face, — “as surely as we are sitting here, the wraith 
of some poor woman, wronged I am sure, perhaps 
foully murdered, appeared to me in that awful 
room. My God, man, I can never forget that 
night.” 

“ Crazy as a loon ! ” said Wortley to himself. 

“You know,” continued Travers, “one other 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


HI 


man beside myself spent a night in that hpuse, so I 
am told. It was two years ago. The morning 
following he was found seated in a chair, a look of 
horror on his face, stark dead ! ” 

“Good God, man ! ” Wortley burst forth, “do you 
believe all that .? ” 

The man before him leant his head upon his 
hands. 

“ Wortley,” he said quietly, “ there are many 
things in this wonderful world impossible to un- 
derstand ; that there is an affinity between the dead, 
a marvellous sympathy between the spirit of the 
departed whom we have known and loved, and our- 
selves, I believe, but I cannot understand. That the 
visitations of that night were realities, and not the 
disordered fancies of ‘ a mind diseased,’ I believe, 
but, alas ! ” — he shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 
“Come now,” he continued, rising, “I expected 
Boswell for our usual afternoon’s bout at billiards. 
He hasn’t turned up. It is six o’clock — I have 
waited long enough — what do you say to a game ? ” 

But Wortley declined, saying he didn’t feel in the 
vein. The fact was, Travers’ earnest manner, if it 
had done nothing else, had made him heartily curse 
the scepticism which had tempted him to accept 
Carew’s bet. Not to go through with it, or attempt 
to do so now, to a man of his nature was out of the 
question. 

“I— I say, Travers,” he said hesitatingly, as they 
strolled towards the billiard room. “The fact of 
the matter is, I made a bet with Carew that I 


112 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


would pass the night in your charming house. 
Whom can I apply to for leave, and, by the way, 
where is the house ? ” 

“ Look here, Wortley,” said his companion, stop- 
ping dead, “don’t you do it. You have plenty of 
pluck and nerve, I don't doubt, but why run a chance 
of injuring both ?” 

“Can’t help it,” was the reply ; “bet’s made too 
late to retract. You can understand the situation.” 

Travers nodded. 

“The agent for the property went through Harrow 
with me. I’ll write to him saying you are a friend 
of mine, and desire to see the place. I’m sure he’ll 
give you the keys. They have given up all hope 
of finding a tenant by this time, and talk of pulling 
it down. Wait two minutes, and I’ll write you the 
note.” 

Travers disappeared into the reading-room, leaving 
Wortley to his own reflections, which were far from 
gay. 

The note which Wortley received a few minutes 
later was addressed to Augustus Boggs, Esq., lo 
Whitehall Place. 

“ It will be too late to see him this evening. I’m 
afraid,” said Travers. 

“Oh, to-morrow will be plenty of time. Many 
thanks for the note. Sorry to have troubled you. If 
I live through to-morrow night, I’ll tell you all about 
it.” Wortley nodded a smiling ati revoir, and walked 
away. 

That night he went to bed with a curious feeling 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 1 13 

that something very much out of the common was 
pending. He could not rest, but lay tossing about 
till the first faint light of a London morning stole 
leaden-like between his blinds, then his eyes closed, 
and he slept till ten o’clock. 

On awakening, the recollection of Travers’ con- 
versation came back to him, but daylight dispersed 
his misgivings, and by the time he had finished a 
substantial breakfast he was fully possessed of the 
belief that that gentleman’s mind was most certainly 
disordered. He accordingly called at 10 Whitehall 
Place, presented his card and Travers’ letter, and a 
moment later was requested to step into the private 
office of Mr. Boggs. 

Mr. Boggs was a short, dapper little man, with a 
round beaming face, and a round shining bald head, 
who looked liked any one but the agent for a haunted 
house. 

“ So you wish to look over No. 2 Morton Gardens.? 
to be sure, to be sure ! Why not ? ” 

“Travers made me rather interested in the place, 
so I thought I’d have a look at it.” 

“ To be sure, to be sure ! Why not .? ” murmured 
the dapper gentleman. 

“ I hear you are thinking of pulling it down ? ” 

“ Yes, yes. As it is, it is impossible to get a tenant. 
People object to living in those mouldy old places, 
and I don’t blame them. ” Mr. Boggs paused and 
reflectively rubbed his chin. “Ah! — the — keys, — ■ 
you want the keys, of course. Benedict ! ” 

“Yes, sir.” , 

3 


TO BEDLAM AND BACA' 


I14 

Enter a boy who bore an amusing likeness to his 
chief, inasmuch as he was fat, had a round bullet 
head, and a beaming merry face. 

“ The keys, Benedict,’’ said Mr. Boggs. 

“Yes, sir.” Exit boy. 

Sir Arthur Wortley smiled. 

“A good boy, — a very good boy,” said Boggs, 
“ Takes an interest in things. Such a boy is bound 
to go on. Dear me. Sir Arthur, it is marvellous how 
that boy picks things up. I like the lad. ” 

Enter promising youth with keys. 

“ Ah ! here they are : the big one for the hall door, 
the brass one for the back door, and the small one 
for the two doors into the big room at the head of 
the stairs.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Boggs.” 

“ And Travers, to be sure ! How is Travers ? How 
well I remember him at dear old Harrow! Merry 
young dogs we were in those days. ‘ Tempiis fugit’ 
as we used to say, — about all the Latin they could 
knock into my stupid head. You see Travers often, 
I suppose ? I don’t. Remember me to him. Good 
lad, Travers, — very good lad.” 

Enter fat boy with card. 

“ Sharpley of Gray’s Inn. Ahem I ” Mr. Boggs 
coughed, Wortley rose to his feet. 

“I must be going now. Good-morning, Mr. 
Boggs, and much obliged. ” 

“ Not at all. Sir Arthur. Pleased to do anything 
for you. Good-morning.” 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 




CHAPTER II. 

When Sir Arthur left the office of Mr, Augustus 
Boggs he drove to a gunsmith’s on the Strand, where 
he bought a 38-calibre revolver of American manu- 
facture. 

He then drove to his rooms, dismissed his hansom, 
telling the driver to call for him there at eight o’clock 
that same evening. Entering he laid his purchase 
on his dressing-table, sauntered into his sitting-room, 
lit a cigarette, touched an electric bell, and seating 
himself in an easy-chair, smoked thoughtfully. A 
gentle knock a moment later heralded the approach 
of his valet. 

“ Tompkins,” he said to that individual, who 
stepped noiselessly into the room. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Let me see, what had I better take } Half a 
dozen bottles of soda water, and a bottle of Scotch 
to begin w'ith. ” 

“ ^ly heye, ain’t ’e a-goin’ it "i ” soliloquised Tomp- 
kins, internally a little surprised ; outwardly his 
clean-shaven face -wore about as much expression 
as the sunny side of a w'ater-melon in July. 

“Yes, sir,” he said aloud. 

“ Or Nvouldn’t a couple bottles of fizz be better, 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


Il6 

Tompkins, for a beverage, with biscuits and cheese 
for solids, and innumerable cigars, for a man sitting 
up all night? Which would you recommend, — fizz, 
or Scotch and soda? ” 

Tompkins was a privileged person, a hon vivani, 
a man whose opinion was well worth having in 
matters of eating and drinking. There was no better 
judge of a cigar or port, in London. There never 
was a valet who stole so little, or was more proficient 
in the art of lying. Tompkins knew the value of his 
opinion, and gave it carefully and with due delibera- 
tion. 

“ Whiskey and soda is a hex’lent and hexhilarating 
beverage, sir ; and as such I cannot recommend it 
too ’ighly. When I says a hex’lent beverage, I 
mean when taken as a gentleman like you takes it. 
Sir Arthur, hin moderation. Would I recommend it, 
you did me the honor to ask. Sir Arthur, in pref- 
erence to fizz with cheese and biscuits, I don’t know 
as ’ow I wouldn’t. Them as has constitootions ” 

“ Tompkins, Tompkins, constitutions, I beg of 
you. ” 

“I beg your pardon. Sir Arthur,” (Tompkins looked 
distinctly hurt), “I was merely goin’ on to say, that 
them as ’as constitoo-tu-tutions, constitutions like 
’ogs. Sir Arthur, might hindiscriminately mix their 
victuals, the latter with the former, or terry fer7iny. 
Hin consequence I might venture ” 

“ Please don’t, Tompkins. I’ll take your advice.’' 
(“Blest if I know what it is ! ” he muttered to him- 
self.) “Scotch and soda, it shall be half a dozen 


TO BEDLAM AND BA CM. 


I17 

soda and a bottle of Scotch. By the way, Tomp- 
kins, are there any cigars left? ” 

“ ’Eaps, Sir Arthur, ’caps.” 

“ Weren’t those last a little green, Tompkins?” 

“I won’t deny it. Sir Arthur — a trifle, the merest 
trifle hunder seasoned, sir, — hunder seasoned.” 

“ I thought as much, — let me see. Half a dozen 
sodas,” — checking items off on his fingers, — “one 
Scotch, biscuits and cheese, cigars. Anything else, 
Tompkins ? ” 

“ Light literatoor. Sir Arthur.” 

“Excellent idea! Of course, a novel! What is 
there in that line ? ” 

“ ‘ The Book’s Daughter,’ Sir Arthur : morals and 
general tone 'igh, very 'igh. Sir Arthur.” 

“ Nothing better than that ? ” 

“There’s ‘Hairy Fairy Lillian.’ My bookseller ” 

“Magnificent! grand! ‘Lillian’ by all means. 
Pack her up with the cheese. What else do I 
want ? ” 

^ “If, Sir Arthur, you’d do me the honor to tell me 
for what you are preparin’, I might be able to 
drop a ’int in all modesty. Sir Arthur.” 

“Exactly, Tompkins. Well, I'm going to camp 
out in an empty room for the night.” 

“’Ow about a bed. Sir Arthur, an’ blankets? ” 

“No, Tompkins, just a couple of railway rugs.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Pack them all up as neatly and in as small a 
space as possible. ” 

“ ’Ow about a Gladstone, Sir Arthur ? ’’ 


Ii8 TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 

“Capital! Put ’em all in, young woman, cheese 
and all. Oh, by the way, I must have some light.” 

“Candles, Sir Arthur, — ’andier packed.” 

“ Very good, Tompkins. I think that is all. Have 
everything ready by eight.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

At five minutes past eight Sir Arthur stepped into 
his hansom and was driven rapidly away. 

It was just the sort of night that often follows a 
fine day in London. At sunset a raw east wind had 
sprung up, which sent the old gentlemen shivering 
into their comfortable houses or clubs, like bees 
into a hive at the first white frost. By nine o’clock 
a fine rain was falling, blown in thin sheets along 
the streets. The near lamps flickered ; those farther 
away shone like tiny moons on a misty night, white 
and faint through the falling rain. An occasional 
pedestrian hurried past with bent head and umbrella 
at an angle. Cabs with waterproofed drivers rattled 
by, bearing their cloaked occupants to balls, operas, 
or concerts. 

Gradually the streets became narrower and quieter, 
fewer pedestrians toiled past with bent heads, the 
region of cabs seemed left behind. At length, in a 
small square filled with trees, before a gloomy look- 
ing edifice standing by itself, a little way back from 
the street, the driver pulled up : 

“’Ere we are, sir.” 

Sir Arthur peered out through the driving rain at 
the ebon-black pile, and did not feel comforted. 

“Are you sure this is No. 2 } ” he inquired. 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


119 


“Certain, sir,” said the driver, lifting the well- 
packed Gladstone to the ground. “The gent as 
lives over the way I’ve drove home many a night,” 
he continued. “Carry this in, sir.? — yes, sir. It do 
be a ghostly lookin’ place an’ no mistake. Thank ’e, 
sir,” and he pocketed his fare after depositing tlic 
Gladstone at the door. A moment later came the 
rattle of wheels as he drove away, and left our hero 
feeling far from heroic, standing in darkness and rain, 
at the door of No. 2, fumbling in his pocket for the 
keys, which he almost hoped he had lost. Even this 
short reprieve was denied him : they were there safe 
enough. “The big one for the hall door,” he mur- 
mured, quoting Boggs, “ the brass one for the back 

door, and the small one for the two doors into 

Oh, hang the keyhole ! ” he muttered, missing it for 
the third time. He got the key in at last, click went 
the bolt as it shot back with a raspy, rusty, super- 
naturally loud clink. He pushed the door open and 
entered. His footsteps echoed strangely in the hall. 
Striking a match, he opened his bag. Blessings on 
Tompkins ! the candles were the first thing he saw. 
Lighting one, he found himself to be in a Avide lofty 
hall, with a broad stairway leading to the floor above. 
There was something eerie and ghostly in the dark- 
ness, which the tiny flame of the candle seemed but 
to accentuate. Over the floor, the stairs, the sills of 
the windows, over every ledge or crevice where dust 
could lodge, it lay a melancholy drab Avinding- 
sheet. Hoav many times in the dim past, perchance, 
had dainty feet tripped up and doAvn the Avide stair- 


120 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


way ? How often had sweet living laughter echoed 
in that dim hall? Is there any place in this sad 
world sadder than some old deserted house ? The 
pathway leading to the door overgrown with weeds, 
the once well-kept grounds a wilderness, the windows 
that in the past perchance had framed the smiling, 
dimpled, lovely faces of sweet and gentle women, 
stare vacant,, sightless, on the occasional pasSer-by 
like the eyes of the blind. The house itself, a body 
soulless ! A temple whose gods have been defiled, 
whose holy of holies has been desecrated by sacri- 
legious hands ! A sepulchre of dead hopes ! A 
monument to poor human vanity ! Oh the frailty 
of it all ! oh the desolation ! oh the pathos, and sad- 
ness of it ! 

Even in the humblest of abodes, some Irish 
peasant’s cabin, the door hanging upon one rusty 
hinge, the rickety old table by the window, the 
broken baby chair, — what a tale is there, written not 
in books ! A genuine live human story of love and 
hope and sorrow : what food for reflection ! Even 
in some old camping-ground far away in the solemn 
wilderness, the charred logs, the row of pegs still 
standing, the withered brush that made the wan- 
derer’s bed, the great dark pines, silent, grim, 
spectral — how unutterably sad are these sights that 
meet us at every turn, these emblems of man’s mor- 
tality ! And Wortley, peering into the black shadows 
of that deserted hall, felt awed, and fearful of what 
he knew not, of the ghostliness of darkness and 
desertion. lie determined to explore the premises. 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK, 


121 


On his left was a window boarded up, on his right 
two doors opened into the hall. With his loaded 
revolver in his pocket, — though he tried to laugh olf 
the nervousness that was comforted by the possession 
of such a weapon, — he turned the handle of the first 
door. It was unlocked and opened easily. The room 
was entirely empty, save for an old bookcase standing 
in one corner. From this room he entered a second, 
in which a table stood, with several chairs round it. 
On the wall hung an old engraving of one of Dante’s 
pictures in a tarnished gilt frame. There was also 
an oak sideboard standing against the wall. To 
this room there were three doors, — the one by which 
he had entered, with a second, facing it, leading into 
the servants’ quarters. These he went through care- 
fully, returning again to the room which, judging 
by the table, sideboard, etc., he concluded must have 
been the dining-room. The third door out of it led 
into the hall. Fie then proceeded upstairs, carrying 
his Gladstone with him, to continue his investiga- 
tions. On this floor a passage ran the full length of 
the house, with two doors opening on to it. 

“They must lead to the two rooms Boggs men- 
tioned,” he remarked to himself. “ Let me see, the 
small key for the two rooms at the top of the stairs 
on the right. Here it is.” 

He drew it from his pocket, fitted it into the key- 
hole of the first door, click went the lock, he turned the 
handle and entered, to find himself standing in the 
back portion of a large double room, divided from 
the front by heavy portikres of an artistic but rough- 


122 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


looking material. On examination he found them to 
be made of a coarse hand-worked eastern fabric, of 
curious design. Only one window looked out from 
the back part of the room, and it was securely bolted 
on the inside. Pushing the portieres aside he entered 
the front. In the centre stood a small table with a 
fairly comfortable looking arm-chair standing by it, in 
front of a large old-fashioned fireplace, beside which 
he was pleased to observe a pile of wood, sufficiently 
big to keep a cheery fire burning during the night. 

In addition to the arm-chair there were two others, 
one of which lay in a corner minus two front legs ; 
the other was in good repair. There was also one 
large window looking out on the street, and a door, 
as in the back portion opening on the passage. His 
next move was to investigate the third and upper story 
which consisted of a suite of six rooms entirely 
empty of furniture, with the exception of one which 
contained an old rosewood writing-table, evidently 
at one time the possession of a lady. Besides an 
ingenious folding desk on the top, there were four 
drawers, two on either side in front. These he found 
to be unlocked. The first three he opened were 
empty. In the fourth he found a lady’s driving glove, 
a yard of faded blue ribbon, and a copy of Owen 
Meredith’s “Lucile.” Opening it, on the fly-leaf he 
found the inscription “Pauline Astley, with her 
grandfather’s love,” and the date, “ i6th October, 
1884.” 

“I will keep these as a memento of this night,” 
he said, pocketing them. 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


123 


He then returned to the front portion of the room 
downstairs, lit a good fire, drew the arm-chair and 
table up to it, and unj^acking his Gladstone, made 
himself as comfortable with the contents as possible. 

“This isn’t half bad,” he remarked, as he seated 
himself, with his feet encased in a pair of comfortable 
slippers, which Tompkins’ thoughtfulness had not 
omitted, a travelling rug at his back for a pillow, 
a fragrant Manilla between his lips, and a cheer- 
ful blaze leaping and glowing before him. Yielding 
himself to the soothing influences of warmth, good 
tobacco, and a refreshing Seotch and soda, his nerv- 
ousness rapidly disappeared. A pleasant drowsiness 
was stealing over him ; he languidly began cutting * 
the leaves of the novel his valet had provided, but, 
ere he had finished, his head nodded forward on his 
chest, the cigar, two-thirds finished, dropped from 
his lips, and he slept. Half-past ten struck from a 
neighboring church clock, eleven, half-past, and 
Arthur Wortley still slumbered. The fire was rapidly 
dying out. The silence in that deserted house at 
midnight was so great that the ticking of his watch 
in his waistcoat pocket, could be heard ten feet away. 

Twenty-five minutes passed ; it lacked but five 
of midnight. Tick, tick, tick, two and a half minutes 
more went by. Then like a flash there was a change 
in the sleeping man : he sat bolt upright, staring about 
with wide-open startled eyes. An electric shock could 
not have been more sudden. One instant he was 
sleeping like a babe, the next he was broad awake, 
every faculty on the alert, with terror at his heart of 


124 


TO BEDLAM AND BA CK. 


something nameless. He peered into the gloomy 
corners of the room, and tried to shake off the fear that 
oppressed him by action. Stooping down he stirred 
the fire, placing more wood upon it. Then from far 
away over the roofs of countless London houses, a 
sound came floating to his ears — a church clock strik- 
ing midnight. He listened like one spellbound. The 
very beating of his heart seemed stilled. One — two — 
three — four — every stroke he counted them. Twelve ! 
came wafted over the roofs, faint but clear as the 
trumpet of the Archangel Gabriel would be to his 
throbbing senses. Then the beating of his heart, in 
the silence that followed, sounded in his ears like the 
panting of a hound after running. 

Arthur Wortley was an English gentleman, and as 
brave as the God of our fathers has made that breed ; 
but sitting alone in that dim room, with a strange 
feeling that something incomprehensible, something 
beyond the power of human reasoning, was going 
to happen, he felt the perspiration standing on his 
forehead, while his hands grew cold and clammy. 

Ten seconds might have elapsed since the stroke of 
twelve, when suddenly he experienced that curious 
feeling that he was not alone. With a sensation as 
though his hair was bristling on his head, he turned 
and faced the portieres. Slowly they were drawn 
aside, and before his horror-stricken eyes there stood 
the figure of a woman. With one fair, slender hand 
she pressed the heavy curtain’s fold ; the other was 
laid upon her breast. With head bent forward, her 
great dark eyes, like wells of sorrow charged to the 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


• I2S 

brim with tears that would not flow, with a wonder- 
ful soft brilliancy in them, like the white light of a 
star, were fastened on his face. But oh, the unut- 
terable sadness, the unutterable pathos in that 
glance! If the soul looks forth from the eyes, oh, 
what a desolate fate was hers I For years after 
the recollection of it haunted him. 

As noiselessly as she had come, she drew back, 
allowing the heavy curtains to fall into place, and 
disappeared behind them. Like one spellbound, he 
sat gazing where she had stood, powerless to act 
for the time being. That a vision, some supernatural 
being, had stood before him, he did not for one 
instant doubt. 

Suddenly he heard a sound. Could he be going 
mad ? He pressed his hands to his temples. By 
an effort that left him trembling, he regained the 
mastery of his faculties. He listened. The sound 
came from one of the rooms below. Some one was 
speaking. Taking, as it were, his courage in both 
hands, he rose, stepped lightly to the door and opened 
it. Here the voice was more distinct, but, strive as 
he might, he could not make out the words. Then 
he heard quick steps as of some one running. Then 
his very blood was frozen in his veins by the piercing 
scream of a woman. 

“Good God!” he exclaimed, “can it be some 
real living creature, and is some one murdering her ? ” 
Springing back to the table, he picked up one of the 
candles, and, with his revolver in his hand, rushed 
to the head of the stairs. 


126 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


“ Hullo there ! ” he shouted, and went down them 
three steps at a time. In the passage he paused a 
moment, undecided which door to enter. 

“Where are you ? ” he cried out. His voice startled 
him, so strange it sounded in the empty hall. He 
listened for an answer ; none came. The beating of 
his heart alone broke the terrible stillness. He 
searched every room as he had done on first entering 
the house ; but not a human being could he discover. 
Filled with a superstitious fear, he returned to his 
arm-chair in the room above. He stirred the fire up 
so that it burned brightly, quaffed off a tumbler of 
Scotch and soda, and again armed with his revolver 
sat awaiting further developments. Not another 
sound disturbed him that night. 

The following morning he drew aside the por- 
tieres and looked into the back part of the room. 

“ I’ll swear I pushed that door to,” he exclaimed, 
“ and now it is standing wide open. Extremely 
strange ! ” 

Next, something white on the floor attracted his 
attention. 

“ Hullo, what’s that ? ” He walked over to the 
object, and, stooping, picked it up. It was a lady’s 
pocket-handkerchief. 

“The plot thickens,” he remarked. “ Never heard 
of a ghost using a pocket-handkerchief.” 

He carried it to the front window, and examined 
it. In one corner, embroidered in lilac-colored silk, 
was the name “ Pauline.” 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


127 


CHAPTER III. 

An hour after discovering the handkerchief, Sir 
Arthur, arrayed in a dressing-gown, seated himself 
in a comfortable arm-chair before a cheery fire in his 
own room, none the worse for his night in a haunted 
house. In answer to a ring, his valet appeared with 
razor and towels, and proceeded to shave him. 

Sir Arthur, with lathered upraised chin, reclined in 
silence. His knit brow, and steady stare at nothing in 
particular, showed plainly that he was thinking — 
possibly of the mysterious Pauline — as who under the 
circumstances would not have been ? 

“ Pardon the liberty. Sir Arthur,” said his valet, 
breaking in upon his reflections. 

“ Well, Tompkins.?” 

‘ ‘ A gray ’air. Sir Arthur. ” 

“ Is it possible .? ” reflectively. 

“ Why, two — three — four — goodness me ! a ’ole 
bunch of ’em. Sir Arthur, hover the left temple. Sir 
Arthur.” 

“ Nonsense, Tompkins ! ” 

“ As I ’ope to be saved. Sir Arthur.” 

“ A glass, Tompkins ! ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Finish shaving me first.” 


128 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


“Yes, Sir Arthur.” 

Among his other accomplishments Tompkins was 
an excellent barber. His deft hands carried the keen 
razor swiftly over his master’s chin. The operation 
over, he presented him with a small hand-mirror. 

“ Hover the left temple. Sir Arthur.” 

Sir Arthur looked at himself. It struck him his 
face was paler than usual, and, sure enough, there 
was a patch of gray hair as big as a shilling piece 
over his left temple. 

“ Tompkins,” he said, turning to him with a well- 
affected air of unconcern, “did you ever know a 
man’s hair whitened by a sudden shock? ” 

His valet eyed him curiously — quick as a flash. 
He had small bead-like eyes, of remarkable bril- 
liancy, though of a pale watery blue in colour, and he 
possessed, unknown to the gentlemen before him, a 
faculty of “sizing up” a man, or taking in a situa- 
tion by a glance almost electrical in its velocity. 

“ I did, Sir Arthur,” he replied. 

“ Yes ? ” interrogatively. 

Tompkins stropped his razor thoughtfully for a 
few seconds ere replying, then he said : 

“ In Washington Territory, in the United States, I 
seen a man shot stone dead through the brain by his 

partner with a 44 -calibre Smith and Wesson Sir 

Arthur.” His valet, it seemed, had almost forgotten 
that little mark of respect with which hitherto he 
had either prefaced or finished every sentence. Sir 
Arthur glanced sharply at him. There was a curi- 
ous glitter in his eyes as he continued speaking 


To TEDZAA/ AND BACA\. 


129 


while he stropped the razor, “ Ileburiedhis partner 
within ten feet of his shack, and left the place. A 
month later, in Montana, where he went, happening- 
to wake up one night — it was summer time, with a 
full moon shining-; his bed was opposite a window, 
— and full in front of that thar window, a little bit 
from it, with the moonlight shining on his face, stood 
the man whom he had shot a month before, and 
buried hundreds of miles away. ‘ Jake,’ said the 
dead man.” Tompkins hesitated. “No, no. I’m 
wrong. Sir Arthur, his name it wer William, called by 
his pals Bill. ‘ Bill, ’ said the dead man, ‘ do ye mind 
me .? ’ His face had turned a greenish colour with a 
queer darkish mark high up on his right cheek near 
the nose, where the ball had gone in. But Jake — I 
mean Bill — never answered him. He had sat bolt up- 
right at the sight, but when he heard him speak he 
jist says, ‘Oh, my God ! ’ says he, and fell back in- 
sensible ; and when he come to his senses agen it wer 
four days later, and they as wer with him said he 
had the fever. Well, next time he seen himself, there 
was a white patch as big as a Yankee dollar just 
about the same place as yours is. Sir Arthur.” 

Tompkins closed the razor, put it in its place, and 
withdrew. As he passed out of the room he spoke 
again. 

“ Beg pardon. Sir Arthur, your bath is ready, 
sir. ” 

When the door closed, Sir Arthur leant back in his 
chair and whistled, then he remarked, apparently to 
the clock on his dressing-table : 

9 


130 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


“ He’s an interesting devil, and no doubt, if he 
had his deserts, he’d be in the penitentiary to-day. 
He dropped the cockney, too, the scoundrel. Bill, 
was it? Twenty to one in anything, it was Jake, 
or ‘ write me down an ass. ’ ” 

At five o’clock that afternoon he called at the 
Athenaeum. He had made up his mind to take 
Travers into his confidence. He found him as 
usual playing billiards with Boswell. Lighting a 
cigarette, he took a seat to await the finish of the 
game. While Boswell was scoring, Travers spoke 
to him. 

“Have you won your bet ? ” he inquired. 

Wortley nodded. 

“ You stayed there last night ? ’’ 

“I did, and came here on purpose to tell you all 
about it. I promised I would, you know.” 

Travers glanced at him curiously. “Engaged 
this evening?” 

“Free till ten, when I’ll have to look in at Mrs. 
Mellvil’s.” 

Boswell finished a break of thirty-three. 

“ Dine with me here at seven ? ” 

“ With pleasure.” 

Travers returned to his game ; Wortley sought an 
easy-chair before the fire in the smoking-room. 

After dinner Travers suggested an adjournment to 
his chambers. 

“We can discuss the whole thing from the begin- 
ning there, without fear of interruption,” he said. 

To this Wortley assented. On their arrival Travers 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


131 

produced a jar of fine Virginia leaf, and a brace of 
famous old churchwardens. 

“In the club I conform to established usages, and 
endeavor to content myself with a cigar ; in the 
sanctity of my chamber I find that true happiness 
and a pipe go hand in hand, so to speak. I verily 
believe I never wrote a decent article — if I ever 
wrote one at all — without a pipe in my mouth. 
Will you try one, or do you prefer a cigar } I have 
some Manillas here, excellent ; imported direct by a 
friend — smuggled, I fear.” 

But our hero accepted a pipe, and when they had 
both filled and lighted, he turned to his friend. 

“Look here, Travers,” he said, “I’ve made a 
discovery.” 

“Indeed, and pray what have you discovered.?” 

“That your ghost uses a pocket-handkerchief.” 

“ Humph ! ” said Travers. 

Then Wortley gave him an exact account of his 
experience. 

“What do you intend doing.?” was Travers’ next 
question, 

“ Renting the house for a year, and sifting the 
matter to the bottom.” 

“Would it not be the simpler plan to put it in the 
hands of a detective .? ” 

“Possibly, but it would be the less interesting 
way. I may employ a detective before I’ve finished, 
but not now. Let us work it up together, Travers, 
and say nothing about it to any one.?” 

Travers smoked for a few minutes in silence. 


132 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


“She is one of three things,” he said, “ either a 
somnambulist, a lunatic, or a criminal.” 

Wortley looked thoughtful. 

“ If the last,” continued Travers, “you may be 
sure she has accomplices. It is not improbable that 
the house may be a rendezvous of thieves, and this 
midnight appearance a little game of theirs to 
frighten people away.” 

“I don’t believe she’s a criminal,” said Wortley, 
“she’s far and away too beautiful.” 

Travers smiled. 

“Well, what do you say to my proposal as to 
solving the mystery ourselves — at any rate having a 
try at it ? ” 

“ How will you go about it ? ” 

“Camp there at night, and on her next appearance 
either make her prisoner, or follow and watch her. ” 

“Yes, it’s not a bad scheme, and might suggest 
an idea for an article if nothing else. You saw her 
plainly ? ” 

“Distinctly; I had three candles lighted; she 
wasn’t more than twelve feet away.” 

“ What sort of a looking creature was she ?” 

“A little over medium height I should say, dark, 
with great, black eyes that looked as though over- 
flowing in tears. My dear fellow,” — Wortley waxed 
enthusiastic, — “ I never saw such hopeless sorrow 
depicted on a beautiful face before, and I hope to 
heaven I never shall again. The very thought of it 
makes me long to weep,” he wound up, with a 
smile. 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


133 


“ How beautiful ! if sorrow had not made 
Sorrow more beautiful than beauty’s self,’ ” 

quoted Travers, “a perfect Niobe.” 

Wortley glanced at his watch. “Half-past nine, 
by Jove ! I must be going.” 

“When do you propose spending another night 
there } ” 

“ How would to-morrow night suit you ? ” 

“ I can manage it, I think,” Travers replied. 

“Very good, I’ll see Mr. Boggs to-morrow morn- 
ing about the house. Dine with me at seven at the 
Travellers’ ? ” 

“One moment. You may have noticed how 
thickly the dust lay everywhere. Did it occur to 
you to look for footprints ? ” 

“It didn’t. Capital. You’ve missed your voca- 
tion, Travers ; you ought to be a detective.” 

Travers smiled. “You would have thought of it 
most likely yourself.” 

“Noth Don’t forget our engagement at seven 
at the Travellers’. Good-night.” 

“Au revoir a deynain . ” 

The following day Wortley found it an easy matter 
to come to satisfactory terms with Boggs, with re- 
gard to the renting of No. 2 Morton Gardens. Hav- 
i-ng given up all idea of finding a tenant, that 
bustling little gentleman was only too delighted to 
get such a one as Sir Arthur, and, though naturally a 
little surprised, delivered him the keys without ques- 
tion, merely expressing a hope that it would suit, 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


134 

and offering to make any necessary repairs at the 
expense of the firm he represented. 

After dining, Wortley and Travers, with the neces- 
sary creature comforts, and each armed with a re- 
volver and a heavy oak stick, drove to the scene of 
their vigil. 

“The first thing to be done,” said Travers, “is to 
examine the floor carefully and see if we can find 
traces in the dust of other footprints than those of 
the young woman.” 

Accordingly, having deposited the several articles 
they had brought with them in the upper front room, 
they lighted four candles, and carefully examined the 
floor where the woman passed, between the portieres 
and the door. And sure enough, as Travers had 
supposed, they found the prints of a pair of small nar- 
row slippers, which they followed without much diffi- 
culty to the head of the stairs. Down them, however, 
the traces were not discernible. 

“ Owing to her skirts sweeping the steps behind 
her,” said Travers, who seemed to be rapidly de- 
veloping a proficiency in trail-reading, which would 
have done credit to a red Indian. 

In the hall and lower rooms, especially round the 
table in the dining-room, they found numerous 
traces of the little slippers. They also found through 
the house the track of a larger shoe, which Wortley 
declared to be his. 

There still remained one part of the establishment 
to be explored, namely, the basement, where, if the 
house were used as a rendezvous of thieves, they 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


135 


might expect to find traces of those gentry. But 
nothing further was disclosed, save three cases of 
empty bottles, and innumerable cobwebs. Here the 
woman herself had evidently not been, as a minute 
inspection of the dust-covered brick flooring brought 
no further traces to light. 

“ It only remains for us to wait till midnight for 
the appearance of your beautiful Niobe,” said 
Travers, “and in the mean time let us return to the 
upper front room, and make ourselves as comfortable 
as possible.” 

This they accordingly did. 

“ I think you will admit the chances are that your 
criminal theory is wrong ? ” remarked Wortley, stand- 
ing with his back to the fire which they had 
kindled. 

“It certainly looks as if she had no accomplices,” 
was the reply, “ in consequence of which, I dare 
say that part of the theory is wrong.” Travers 
gazed thoughtfully into the fire. 

“You still believe her to be ” 

“A somnambulist or a lunatic; I do, my dear 
fellow, and I am inclined to believe her to be the 
latter. ” 

“ Horrible ! ” said Wortley, with a shudder. 

Travers had had a busy day, and, in consequence, 
about eleven, began to feel distinctly drowsy, and by 
half-past had fallen into a sound sleep. Wortley, 
whose mind was too full of the mysterious Pauline 
to permit of slumber, sat with his feet to the fire, 
puffing a well-seasoned old briar. At length, he 


136 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


again heard the cluirch clock strike the hour of 
midnight. He did not this time, however, feel the 
same superstitious dread as he had experienced on 
the former occasion. Nevertheless, as he turned and 
faced the portieres expectantly, he could not help 
admitting to himself that his heart did beat a little 
more quickly, and that he did feel those curious creepy 
sensations that we have all felt at least once in our 
lives. A quarter of an hour passed. A half hour. One 
o’clock struck, and all was silent. Wortley began to 
feel drowsy ; his head nodded forward on his chest. 

Hist ! what was that.? He was broad awake in an 
instant. There came a sound as of a door closing 
gently in one of the rooms below. He removed his 
slippers, and in his stocking feet stole noiselessly to 
the door, opened it softly, and listened. For a few 
seconds not a sound but Travers’ regular breathing 
broke the stillness. 

Could his imagination have played him a trick .? 
He began to think that such indeed had been the 
case. But no ! there came again the sound of a door 
swinging on its hinges. There was no mistake 
about it this time, and from the direction he judged 
it to be the dining-room door. Pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, 
some one was walking in the hall below. 

He started towards the stairway. A loose board 
that he stepped upon creaked loudly. He stopped, 
and, hardly daring to breathe, listened. The foot- 
steps had ceased. 

Suddenly Travers, whom he had left sleeping 
peacefully, was awakened by a piercing shriek. 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


137 


He sprang to his feet, broad awake, to find him- 
self alone. Picking up a candle, he rushed to the' 
head of the stairs, where he found Wortley, with 
blanched face, peering over the banisters into the 
darkness. 

“Quick, man,” he cried in a choked voice, “she 
was in the hall, and has run into the dining-room.” 

This he explained as he rapidly descended the 
stairs with Travers behind him, shading the flame of 
the candle with one hand. 

A moment later they stood in the dining-room. 
It was empty. 

“She’s in the back part of the house. Hurry, for 
heaven’s sake. ” 

Not a trace of a human being could they find. 

“She must have gone out through the back door,” 
said Travers. 

Wortley reached the door first, turned the handle. 

“ Confound it ! ” he exclaimed, “it’s locked ! ” 


138 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A MONTH passed away, and in that time, though 
Wortley and Travers had spent ten nights at No. 2, the 
mystery of Pauline had not been solved. Travers 
was beginning to find two nights a week in an arm- 
chair rather too much of a good thing, and declared 
the game hardly worth the candle. 

Not so Wortley. Whether she were mad or not, 
the vision of that lovely, sorrow-stricken woman had 
taken such a hold upon his mind, that, do his utmost, 
he could not shake it off. Wortley was ten years 
younger than his pale-faced journalist friend. In 
years he was little more than a boy, and he possessed 
a boy’s enthusiasm. He idealized his dark-eyed 
Niobe. Her appearance of distress would have 
been sufficient to enlist his sympathies, at any rate 
for a time, though I doubt if he would have sat up 
ten nights in the month for the chance of speaking 
with her, had she not possessed unusual beauty as 
well. 

Pie grew restless and irritable. He smoked too 
many cigars for his own good. He played billiards 
too often, for it is thirsty work, and thirst is agreeably 
slaked with brandy and soda. Now brandy and soda 
form a delightfully refreshing beverage, particularly 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK'. 


139 


on a warm night in spring. But too many brandies 
and sodas, combined with tobacco and late hours, are 
bad for a man. Sir Arthur combined all three, and 
consequently began to look seedy. — Q.E. D. 

Travers also got seedy, but not from mild dis- 
sipation ; neither had pity for the mysterious Pauline 
anything to do with it. The long and short of it 
was he was overworked. He was naturally a del- 
icate man, and, as is frequently the case, combined 
great mental powers and energy with physical weak- 
ness. Now, if a man writes from four to six hours a 
day, and keeps it up for several years, unless he has 
the constitution of a rhinoceros, he is pretty sure to 
break down. 

For several months past Travers had felt that 
something was most decidedly wrong. His appetite 
was failing, he began to suffer from insomnia. He 
found greater difficulty in concentrating his mind 
upon his work, and felt that it was not so good as it 
had been : the vim that he had put into his writing a 
year ago seemed lacking. This last alarmed him 
far more, than sleeplessness or loss of appetite had 
done. Travers possessed good sound sense, as well 
as a classical education, and did not say to himself, as 
fools are constantly doing, ‘ ‘ Pshaw, P'll be all right in 
a little while.” He did not curse the climate. He 
said : “This sort of thing must not continue ; I'll see 
a doctor,” w'hich he accordingly did. He consulted 
Sir William Brudley, a leading West-end medical 
light. 

Sir William sounded his lungs, punched him in 


140 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


the small of the back, felt his pulse, looked at his 
eyes, poked an instrument down his throat, listened 
to his heart beating. Then he seated himself before 
his desk, stroked his chin, and looked exactly what 
he was, namely, very wise and kind, and thoroughly 
to be depended upon. 

“Mr. Travers,” he said after a few moments’ 
pause, “ you must go away at once. I will not say 
that you are very ill now, but you certainly will be if 
you remain here. You should take a three or four 
months’ sea voyage. If you can’t do that, you must 
spend the summer by the seaside, somewhere in 
the south. Live in the open air as much as possible 
and bathe in the sea. There is one thing you ab- 
solutely must not do,” — Sir William emphasized 
what he said by rapping the knuckles of his right 
hand upon his desk, “ — you positively must not write 
more than two hours a day, and for the first month 
I strongly advise you not to write at all. You may 
read if you like, but hard brain-work of any de- 
scription I absolutely forbid.” 

This closed the interview. Sir William pocketed 
his fee, and Travers took his departure to prepare 
for his enforced holiday. A week later, he bid 
Wortley good-bye, advised him strongly to give up 
his pursuit of the mysterious Pauline, and took his 
departure on a sailing ship bound for the West 
Indies. 

Needless to say, our hero did not follow his advice, 
but, as is the way with any young man worth his 
salt, listened with becoming respect, and then went 


TO BEDLAM AND BACA'. 


141 


his way, determined to purchase experience at his 
own expense, and not live by the wisdom of 
others. 

So Wortley was left to himself to unravel the 
mystery. 

Now it so happened that the day after Travers’ de- 
parture, while he was looking idly out of his sitting- 
room window, he noticed a black-bearded man in 
seedy clothes lounging along the further side of the 
street. When opposite his door he paused a moment 
irresolutely, then walked briskly across, mounted 
the steps and rang the bell. Tompkins opened the 
door, when Wortley’s ears were immediately greeted 
by a harsh American twang, and the words : 

“Williams, old pard, how is things ? I guessed 

I’d find ye in an ” The remainder of the sentence 

he did not catch, as his interesting valet stepped 
outside, and closed the door after him. 

“Humph ! "ejaculated Sir Arthur, seating himself. 
“Williams and Tompkins, and Jake and Bill. 
Upon my honour, I ought to be congratulated on 
the possession of such a treasure. A precious 
rum lot, I expect. I suppose I ought to discharge the 
beggar. Sorry to do that, though, as he certainly 
is useful in his way, and the most honest scoundrel 
I ever knew." 

About five minutes elapsed ere the object of his 
reflections again entered the house, and when he 
did so, went directly upstairs. Sir Arthur walked 
over to the window in time to catch a glimpse of 
the back of that scion of the land of freedom, as he 


142 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


turned the corner and disappeared. He then rang 
for Tompkins and seated himself. 

Enter that worthy. 

“Tompkins ! ” 

“Yes, Sir Arthur.” 

“You have had a visit from a friend .? ” 

“ A mere acquaintance, Sir Arthur. ” With a light- 
ning glance. 

Sir Arthur lighted a cigarette, and puffed thought- 
fully a moment. 

“In England, Tompkins ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“We do not as a rule keep valets with a plurality 
of surnames.” 

“ No, Sir Arthur ? ” Tompkins looked pensive. 

“No doubt they are useful at times ? ” 

“ Remarkably so. Sir Arthur.” 

“That reply was quite unnecessary.” (Tompkins 
looked wounded.) “England, Tompkins, is made up 
of a conservative people with old-fashioned preju- 
dices. You touch that people in a tender part when 
you appear in the midst of them with several sur- 
names. Englishmen, as a rule, are satisfied with one ; 
they become suspicious of a man who luxuriates in 
half a dozen. Being an Englishman, Tompkins, you 
will not wonder at my inheriting their national pecul- 
iarities. I am growing suspicious of you, Tompkins. 
To a man of your open and ingenuous nature that 
will doubtless be surprising.” 

“Your suspicions hurt me, Sir Arthur, deeply, — 
very deeply.” A Church of England rector could 


TO BEDLAM AND BACA' 


143 

not have expressed more patient sorrow and long 
suffering in face and voice, than did Tompkins. 
“You are not an Englishman, Tompkins.” 

“No, Sir Arthur.” 

“ May I ask what you are ? ” 

“ An Australian, Sir Arthur.” 

“Indeed!” 

“And an American citizen. Sir Arthur.*’ 
“Anything else.? ” 

“ A New Zealander, Sir Arthur, and I think I may 
lay claim to being a little bit of a Brazilian, Sir 
Arthur.” 

• “A cosmopolitan, in short.” 

“Exactly so. Sir Arthur.” 

“Then why affect the cockney, Tompkins?” 
“Thought it more respectable in my present re- 
dooced circumstances. Sir Arthur. ” - 
Reduced, Tompkins, please.” 

“Yes, Sir Arthur.” 

“And how did you make a living before you 
came to England ? ” 

“ I mined in Australia, Sir Arthur, 'tended sheep 
in New Zealand, did odd chores in Brazil, and was a 
cowboy out West.” 

“ Then you can ride, Tompkins ? ” 

“Just a little. Sir Arthur.” 

“And shoot?” 

“Just try me. Sir Arthur.” 

“I ought to discharge you, Tompkins.” 

Tompkins looked sad. 

“ But you’re an honest rascal.” 


144 


TO bedlam and back. 


“I try to be, Sir Arthur. ” 

“So I won’t this time.” 

“Thank you, Sir Arthur.” 

“ You may go now. ” 

Exit Tompkins. 

When he left Sir Arthur’s presence, he went up- 
stairs to that gentleman’s dressing-room, where he 
had been brushing some clothes when Sir Arthur 
rang for him. Walking up to the glass, he contem- 
plated his image in it for a few moments, and thus 
addressed it : 

“You’re the stuff, old man. Tompkins, is it } — ha, 
ha, ha ! Williams, is it .? — he, he, he ! Name it and I’ll 
give it to you. Spit on it and see if it will float. 
Williams, Williams, you’ll be the death of me. Can 
you shoot? — perhaps not.” Here he pulled a long 
face, and looked as innocent as a cat after stealing 
cream. He continued : “ There’s plenty o’ sand on 

your neck, Tompkins, my boy, or Williams, or what- 
ever in hell you call yourself. You ain’t the tejider- 
foot you look, — no, not by a darned sight.” 

He turned away from the glass, and began indus- 
triously brushing a pair of Sir Arthur’s unmention- 
ables. “And what little snide game are you playin’ 
a lone hand in,” apostrophizing the above-mentioned 
articles of clothing, “ goin’ out nights in a respectable, 
genteel, little village like this ’ere London, with a 
Smith and Wesson in your pocket ? Bein’ an Ameri- 
can citizen, ” mimicking Sir Arthur, “ with a touch of 
the Brazilian, New Zealander, and Australian, you 
will not wonder at my inheriting their national 


TO Bedlam and back. 


145 


peculiarities. I am growing suspicious of you, Sir 
Arthur, and if I don’t know what you’re up to before 
I’m much older, I ain’t a worthy son of my highly 
respectable papa — whoever he was.” This last 
idea seemed to tickle him hugely, judging by his 
laughter. 

The following day Sir Arthur got word from his 
steward, which necessitated his spending a week in 
the country. He left town on a Friday and returned 
the following Thursday, dined alone in his own 
house, giving Tompkins orders to prepare the usual 
necessaries for a night at No. 2, and at eight o’clock 
stepped into a hansom and drove rapidly away. 
Just as he started another hansom passed. It was 
empty. His valet signalled it. 

“ Follow the one that has just left,” he said, “let 
it keep as far ahead as possible.” 

Away they went a hundred yards or so behind. 
When they turned into Morton Gardens, Tompkins 
saw the other hansom standing in front of a house 
a little distance ahead. Telling his driver to stop 
and wait for him, he alighted on the opposite side of 
the street, and walked leisurely up the pavement. 
After dismissing his hansom he saw Sir Arthur ap- 
proach the door of a dreary-looking edifice. For fully 
five minutes Tompkins walked up and down, his head 
bent forward, his hands clasped behind his back, 
apparently in deep thought. The steps of some'one 
approaching aroused him. 

“ Astley’s, the old man’s,” he muttered. “ What in 
the devil’s name’s Sir Arthur driving at now ? ” 

10 


146 


TO BEDLAM AND BACA' 


He walked slowly back to his hansom. “Back 
again,” he said to the driver and took his seat. 

For several days after that, Tompkins was pre- 
occupied and thoughtful. He watched Sir Arthur, 
and listened with a curious expectant expression on 
his face to everything that gentleman said. 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


U7 


CHAPTER V. 

After Travers had taken his departure, Wortley 
almost made up his mind to take some other friend 
into his confidence. First he thought of Carevv. 
But no, Carevv would not do, he was too much of a 
boy. His way of looking at things was distinctly 
frivolous. He would have chaffed him for being 
in love with Pauline : he couldn’t stand that. He was 
in love with Pauline ; that is to say, he was in love 
with a beautiful ideal being, whom in his youthful en- 
thusiasm he clothed with a perfect halo of romance. 
He did not think — or if the thought did occur to 
him he promptly turned it aside — that the creature 
of his imagination might materialize into a mad 
woman. It was too horrible ; he would not dwell 
upon it. Reason uttered a thousand reasonable 
things, as is its way. Reason against love, reason 
against enthusiasm, reason against youth : what 
must be the result? Reason on the one hand — dull, 
cold, unfeeling reason. Radiant loveliness on the 
other, sympathy, real living passion, wonderful 
human nature. What, in Heaven name, is worth 
more ? We are told that there are other things in 
life worth more. Reason tells us so. We sit with 
pretty Miss So-and-so in her mamma’s drawing- 
room. We gaze into her deep, wonderful eyes, and 


7V BEDLAM AND BACK. 


148 

\vc doubt. Alas, for the wisdom of youth ! How 
much, my dear young man, would you be spared, 
could you but profit by the experience of others ! 
One woman closely resembles another, when all is 
said. She may be a little wiser, a little weaker, a 
little more foolish than her fellow. But on this you 
may wager your last penny, she is bound to be, in 
her way, equally exasperating, and the odds are a 
thousand to one she’ll lead you a devil of a dance 
before you see the last of her — or of life. “ Beauty 
is only skin-deep,” — wise, silly old truism. Until 
beauty appears shorn of that delicate covering, one- 
third of humanity will continue to love and hate 
the other two-thirds, but not till then. 

The evening that Sir Arthur, followed by his 
valet, arrived at No. 2 Morton Gardens, he decided 
to make a slight difference in the order of his cam- 
paign for the night. Instead of watching in the 
upper front room, he decided to pass the night in 
the one directly below it, that is, in the library, as 
he judged it to be by the bookshelves. He brought 
the arm-chair downstairs, and with a travelling rug 
over his knees, another one at his back, his feet 
propped up on one of the dining-room chairs, two 
lighted candles to read by, and one of Black’s 
delightful novels, made himself as comfortable as 
possible under the circumstances. The lack of a 
fire made the room less cheerful than the one 
upstairs had been, but, as the night was warm and 
superstitious fears no longer troubled him, he felt 
that a fire would only be a superfluous luxury after 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


149 


all. The two doors into the room he closed, fearing 
that the light would frighten Pauline away, should 
she come that night. He became interested in his 
novel, and time passed rapidly. The church clock 
striking eleven recalled him to the present. He 
laid aside his book, pulled his watch out, and wound 
it up. Then he stretched himself, yawned, and 
clasping his hands behind his head, leaned back 
musing. 

“What an ass I am!” he said. “I really think 
Carew would have been quite justified in laughing 
at me, had I been fool enough to tell him.” 

He grew restless and fidgety. The discomfort of 
sitting for several hours in a not too comfortable 
chair suddenly struck him. He was seized with a 
cramp in his leg. 

“ Confound it ! ” he exclaimed, rubbing that mem- 
ber; “ hang me if I continue this little game much 
longer if the young woman doesn’t put in an appear- 
ance. Deuced good mind to chuck up the business 
and go home.” 

He felt distinctly ill-used, snuffed the candles, 
which were beginning to gutter, and seated himself 
again. 

Hardly had he done so, when he fancied he heard 
a light step in the hall. His chair was so placed 
that he sat directly facing the door leading into it. 
He listened. There was no mistaking it. Pit-a-pat, 
pit-a-pat, came the sound of approaching steps, just 
as he had heard them before. The next instant the 
door-handle was turned, the door slowly opened, and 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


150 

the mysterious Pauline stood before him. Sir 
Arthur, taken by surprise at the suddenness of her 
appearance, stared at her speechless. Her head 
was bare ; her dark hair, rolled in a thick coil on top, 
was held in place by a broad silver pin which shone 
in the candle-light. Over her shoulders she wore a 
loose cloak of a brown material, cut something in 
the fashion of those worn by cavaliers in the old 
days. And not unlike one of those gallant gentle- 
men did she look, with her beautiful pale face, half 
hidden as it was by a great collar of some soft fur. 
Before Sir Arthur had time to recover from his 
astonishment, she had closed the door and advanced 
to the middle of the room, where she stood looking 
at him, and calmly undoing the fastenings of her 
cloak. 

Sir Arthur rose to his feet. With a quick move- 
ment of her shoulders, the cloak slid from them. 

“Take it,” she said, in the most natural way in 
the world, holding it out to him. 

At the sound of her voice Sir Arthur regained his 
self-possession ; that is, he knew what he was doing, 
though he felt as if he must be dreaming. He ex- 
tended his hand to take the cloak, half expecting to 
encounter nothing but empty air. But no, so far it 
was real enough. He folded it carefully, and hung 
it over his arm. She now stood before him in a 
closely-fitting creamy white dress, with gold braid 
work about the bosom, and a big rolled collar edged 
with the same. Her figure was exquisitely moulded, 
slight and graceful. Pie noticed all this, as her 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


glance left his face and wandered over the room. 
Suddenly she knit her eyebrows into an angry frown, 
and stamped her foot upon the floor. 

“I declare it hasn’t been swept yet,” she said, 
with a gesticulation of her hands. 

“I beg your pardon,” stammered Sir Arthur, not 
knowing exactly what to say. 

‘ ‘ I say it hasn’t been swept yet. Haven’t you eyes .? 
Can’t you see ? ” 

She extended one foot beyond her skirt, and drew 
the toe of her slipper — which Sir Arthur noticed had 
a big rosette upon it — for several inches over the 
floor, leaving a perfectly discernible track in the 
dust. He glanced at the tiny foot as it described a 
semicircle, then at her face, and his very soul was 
filled with sorrow. 

“Travers was right,” he murmured, “she is mad.” 

“I will see that it is swept,” he said aloud, in a 
gentle voice. 

“That is right,” she said, and smiled entranc- 
ingly. 

Sir Arthur made a mental vow that it should be 
done if he had to do it himself. 

“But can I trust you to see to it } ” She glanced at 
him suspiciously, and shook one taper finger. 

“Yes, you may trust me,” he replied. 

She walked over to the arm-chair and seated her- 
self. 

“What a pretty rug!” she exclaimed, with the 
delight of a child. “Wrap it around me; I love 
pretty things.” 


152 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


Sir Arthur carefully placed his railway rug over 
her shoulders. 

She sat staring at the candles. 

“Candles!” she cried out — “always candles. When 
I go to church I see candles, great, long, white can- 
dles. I hate candles, I loathe candles, I abominate 
candles ; I shall be driven mad by candles, horrid, 
sputtering things. Put them out immediately.” 

Sir Arthur was at a loss ; he stood still, undecided. 

“Put them out — put them out ! ” She thumped 
with her little hands on the arms of her chair, “Do 
you want to make me cry ? ” 

“No, don’t, please,” replied our hero, in an 
agony. “But we will be in the dark if I do.” 

She grew calm at once. 

“Then don’t put them out, you great, silly 
man.” 

She examined him carefully from head to foot. 

“You look sad. Now tell me,” — she put her head 
to one side and looked slily at him — “are you the 
cook’s brother .? ” 

This took Sir Arthur completely by surprise. 

“ Merciful powers, no ! ” he ejaculated. 

“Now don’t get excited, silly man, for I know 
you must be one of three things, either the cook’s 
brother, or Susan’s young man, or the Queen’s god- 
son. Now tell me which it is. I insist upon your 
being one of the three. You must, you must, you 
must.” She thumped again on the arms of the 
chair. “ I hate mystery, so you must be one of the 
three — the cook’s brother, Susan’s young man, or the 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


IS3 

Queen’s godson. Quick, quick, quick, before I 
count five. One, two, three ! ” 

“The Queen’s godson,” he cried hurriedly, and 
wondered if he too were going mad, or if he were 
dreaming. He would not be cither of the other two 
for worlds. Again that heavenly smile. 

“That is right,” she said, “but you might have 
told me before ; now I know who you are.” 

“Who am I?” he said, sighing. It was ridicu- 
lous of course, awfully ridiculous, but he could not 
have smiled to save himself. He seated himself 
opposite to her as he spoke. 

She paid no heed to his question, however, but 
continued her rambling, disjointed speech. 

“You know,” she said, pulling at the corners of 
the rug with her little white hands, “I am living with 
the Duchess now. She’s very funny, funny, funny, 
funny, but she doesn’t seem to think so, and that's 
the joke, that’s the joke. We used to play with the 
children then. One of them was quite big, but that 
you know is the Duchess ; her head is as big as the 
moon, her nose like a red apple, and her hair, why, 
it’s just like dried seaweed. And — and — I was 
going to tell you something, but I can’t remember 
what it is.” She passed her hand over her brow in a 
puzzled way. 

Sir Arthur, with a stifled feeling in his throat, sat 
looking at her. He could not speak for pity. A 
cunning look came over her face. 

“The silly old Duchess thinks I’m in bed, you 
know; but I assure you I’m not. You would like 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


154 

to know what I’ve got in my pocket, now, wouldn’t 
you ? ” 

“Very much, indeed,” said Sir Arthur. 

“You won’t mention it to the Duchess.'* ” 

“I promise you I won’t.” 

“Well, I’ve got a key, a big yellow key — two 
keys. ” 

“Indeed.?” 

“Yes; one for the Duchess’s house, the other for 
my house. You know this is my house, and when 
the Duchess goes to sleep I get up. I never sleep, 
you know ; only stupid people sleep. Now I will 
tell you something more, but you mustn’t tell this to 
the Duchess either. I will tell you who I am. ” She 
rose as she spoke. 

“Who are you? ” inquired Sir Arthur. 

“I am,” she said, with a grand air, curtsying 
low, “ the Lady Jane Grey.” 

Instinctively Sir Arthur rose to his feet and 
bowed. 

“Then the wicked men came and took away my 
dear — ah ! that is what broke my heart. ” She 
seated herself again, and bowing the beautiful dark 
head upon her hands, wept as though the poor 
bruised heart would break again. 

“Don’t, please don’t,” said Sir Arthur, with the 
tears running down his own kindly face. “I can’t 
stand it, you know. Please, please don’t, Miss — Miss 
Pauline.” 

At the sound of her name she started, and looked 
strangely at him through great shining dark eyes. 


70 BEDLAM AND BACK. 


*55 

“Pauline — no, no. Poor Pauline died years and 
years ago. Why — oh, why do you speak of Pauline ? ” 

“I am very sorry for poor Pauline,” said Sir 
Arthur sadly ; “ you must tell me all about her.” 

“No, I can’t, — I won't, — I won’t,” she cried 
excitedly. “ You know the Duchess wouldn't like it. 
The poor dear Duchess thinks I’m in bed now, — 
ha, ha, ha ! ” Her laughter was sadder than her 
tears. 

“But I will tell you something else.” 

“Do, please.” 

“But it’s horrible.” 

“ Then don’t speak of it.” 

“ Oh, but I must.” She put her head on one side 
like a bird and looked at him. “I’m inclined to 
believe,” she said, with a preternaturally wise air, 

“ that you are really not what you seem.” 

“ What do I seem 

“Ah, that’s it; that’s just what I said to the 
Duchess last winter. We were out in the fields 
gathering wild strawberries, and I said to her ; 

‘ Duchess, doesn’t it seern odd that strawberries 
should be ripe at this season ? ’ And she said to me, 
— she — said — to — me ” 

“ What did she say to you ? ” 

“You silly, silly creature. ” She turned to him 
with a quick, petulant movement. “ How can I be 
expected to remember what she said to me ? ” 

“I beg your pardon,” said Wortley humbly ; “ it ' 
was very stupid of me to ask such a question. ” 

“Very stupid, — very stupid, — v-e-e-r-r-y stupid,” 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


•56 

she sang, beating time to the air with her foot. ‘ ‘ Don’t 
cry, silly man,” she continued, as though she were 
speaking to a child. “If it was naughty it won’t be 
naughty any more ; no, never any more, and I won’t 
tell the Duchess, — no, I won’t.” 

“Please don’t, ’’said Wortley, for the first time 
smiling in spite of himself. 

Suddenly her whole manner changed, a look of 
terror came into her face, the pupils in her eyes 
dilated and grew bright. She looked fearfully at the 
door into the dining-room. Noiselessly she rose to 
her feet, and stepped quietly as a phantom to Wort- 
ley’s side. With her left hand she gripped his arm, 
and with her right gathered her skirts together, as 
though to race like a wild creature. 

“ Hush! ” she said in a piercing whisper. Wort- 
ley, startled by her odd behavior, followed with his 
eyes the direction of her glance, and listened. Not a 
sound save the ticking of his watch could he hear. 

“ What is it .? ” he inquired. 

“ Hush! ” she said again ; “ he’s in there. Don’t 
you hear him, the wicked, wicked man .? oh, oh, oh ! ” 
Stifled sobs. “Come, and we will peep.” She drew 
him to the door and opened it an inch. “ 0-o-h ! ” 
she shrieked, the same fearful cry that he and 
Travers had heard before. 

She flew to the other door, turned an instant, and 
beckoned to him. “Come,” she cried, and ran 
• through the hall like a wild thing, with Wortley fol- 
lowing her. At the back door she stopped, all trem- 
bling, to search for her key. Wortley opened it with 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


*57 


his, and together they passed out into a sort of yard. 
A gate from this opened into a lane which led to the 
street. They were walking now. He drew her hand 
through his arm. 

“You mustn’t be afraid,” he said in a gentle 
voice ; “I won’t let anybody hurt you.” 

She glanced up into his face, and for a brief 
second the light of reason seemed to shine in her 
eyes. 

“You are very good,” she said in alow voice, and 
then became silent. 

From Morton Gardens at the east end, Sedley 
Street runs at right angles to it. At the third house 
from the corner Pauline stopped. It was a big old 
mansion of three storeys, and stood in a terrace. 
There was nothing unusual in its appearance ; it 
looked comfortable and respectable, while the pol- 
ished brass on the door gave it a prosperous, well- 
to-do air. 

“This is where the Duchess lives,” said Pauline, 
speaking for the first time since they had left No. 2. 
“I won’t ask you in,” she added, “because — be- 
cause to-morrow will be Friday, and the Duchess 
might not like it.” She took her key out, and put it 
in the keyhole. 

“When shall I see you again .? ” said Wortley. 

“Ah ! ” — she nodded her head archly, — “ I really 
don’t believe you are Susan’s young man after all.” 
Click went the lock as she turned the key in it. 
She pushed the door open and entered. 

“I vow I am not,” said Wortley earnestly, but the 


158 TO BEDLAM AjVD BA CK. 

door closed ere the words were well out of his mouth, 
and he stood alone in the silent, deserted street. His 
breast was filled with conflicting emotions, as he 
returned bareheaded. Her cloak, hanging over the 
back of the chair where he had left it, was an actual 
shock to him. 

The rickety old arm-chair where she had sat, 
and the rug that had covered her slender form, were 
hallowed to him now. 

He had but to close his eyes, to see her standing 
in her pretty white gown with the gold braiding. 
He could hear the petulant words again : “ I declare 
it hasn’t been swept yet.” 

What terrible calamity had occurred to unhinge that 
gentle mind? The thought maddened him. Just 
God ! it was too cruel. Must she, so lovely, so pure, 
suffer through weary, changeless years ? Justice 
thundered No: ten thousand times No ! But Pauline, 
the lovely Pauline, was mad. Ah ! there was the rub. 
Get over that little difficulty if you can. Sir Arthur 
Wortley ; and as he drove from the house in the 
morning, he vowed he would never rest until that 
difficulty was overcome, if science could conquer it. 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


159 


CHAPTER VL 

Sir Arthur noted the number of the house where 
he had left Pauline. It was 37. Arrived at home, 
after a comfortable breakfast, he rang for Tomp- 
kins. 

“ A directory, Tompkins.” 

“Yes, Sir Arthur.” 

He turned up Sedley Street, and found that a Mrs. 
Vidal, widow, lived at No. 37. He wrote the name 
in his pocket-book. Tompkins, passing behind 
his master a moment later with the morning papers 
and letters, read the number of the page he was writ- 
ing the address from, and made a mental note of it. 

An hour later Sir Arthur, throwing aside his drcss- 
ing-gown, attired himself for the day, and strolled to 
his club. 

Tompkins, left to himself, first took up the di- 
rectory, and turning to the page, ran over every name 
carefully. When he read Mrs. Vidal, 37 Sedley 
Street, a puzzled, thoughtful expression came over 
his face. “Mrs. Vidal ! Mrs. Vidal ! ” he murmured, 
“where have I heard that name before ? Devilish 
strange ! ” He leant his head upon his hand and 
stared fixedly at it. “By God! I have it.” He 
banged the directory upon the table, and jumped to 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


160 

his feet. “ It’s the woman that old fool Astley was 
in love with. I’d give something to get hold of that 
pocket-book of Sir Arthur’s.” He next went up- 
stairs into Sir Arthur’s dressing-room, where he found 
the dressing-gown his master had thrown aside, 
across a lounge. He searched the pockets in the 
hope of finding the pocket-book there, but, alas! was 
disappointed. 

Throwing it down in disgust, he remarked in a 
cheerful, conversational tone, to himself, with a 
western nasal drawl, “Williams, Williams, old party, 
this ere life is growin’ interesting — darned interest- 
ing.” He then went into Sir Arthur’s sitting-room. 
One of those desks with a space in the centre for 
your knees, and drawers on each side, stood near the 
window. It seemed that morning as though the 
spirit of curiosity had taken possession of him. As 
he had once remarked to a pal of his : “There is 
times. Bill, when the longin’ to contemplate the con- 
tents of a closed drawer takes a powerful holt on 
me.” 

Accordingly he opened every one, and they were 
all unlocked, excepting the top one on the left hand 
side. Taking a smiall steel instrument from his 
waistcoat pocket, he inserted it in the keyhole, worked 
it about for a moment, when the bolt shot back from 
its socket. Pulling the drawer open, he discovered 
in it a piece of faded blue ribbon, a lady’s driving 
glove, and a copy of Owen Meredith’s “Lucile.” 
Tompkins’ mind was not of that order that delights 
in either Art or Literature. It is quite within the 


TO BEDLAM AND BACA' 


i6i 


region of probability that he had never read that 
fascinating story ; possibly, too, had he attempted to 
do so, he would not have found it fascinating. He 
did not treat it with that loving tenderness with 
which the disciple of literature instinctively handles 
the meanest volume. He held it upside down, and 
turned a few of the leaves over by the aid of his 
thumb, which he first delicately moistened between 
his lips. 

“Humph! poetry !” he muttered. He could not 
have expressed greater, or more biting scorn had he 
exhausted his vocabulary of cosmopolitan simile 
in the attempt, and that is saying a good deal. Some 
writing on the title page caught his eye, as he was 
closing the book. Contemplative desire again “ took 
a powerful holt ” on him ; he turned the page and 
read “Pauline Astley, with her grandfather’s love. 
i6th October, 1884.” It is altogether likely that John 
Milton’s masterpiece would not have produced such 
an effect upon him. He actually turned pale. 
“ Holy smoke ! ” he ejaculated, “this do beat the 
band.” Returning the book to the drawer, which he 
immediately closed and locked, he seated himself in 
Sir Arthur’s easiest chair, rested his head upon his 
hands, and gave himself up to silent meditation. 
Strange coincidence I — Sir Arthur in his club smoking- 
room at the same time was occupied in the same 
manner. Still a stranger coincidence, he was think- 
ing of the same people, and was equally perplexed. 

Somebody or other, I forget who, said that man- 
kind is made up of two classes — those who play the 

II 


i 62 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


fiddle, and those who do not. I think this classifica- 
tion nearer the mark— those who smoke, and those 
who do not. A perplexed non-smoker either gnaws 
his nails, or becomes like a caged beast, and walks 
furiously up and down. A man who smokes lights 
his pipe or cigar, when, lo and behold ! his mind be- 
comes trail quillised, he looks at things through the 
spectacles of reason, and through them he often sees 
his mountains dwindle into insignificant molehills. 
Insurmountable difficulties have the same miracu- 
lous way of disappearing, impossibilities become 
possible, nay, even probable. Oh, wonderful to- 
bacco smoke ! Sweet minister to a troubled mind ! 
Comforter and consoler when all others fail ! Be- 
gone, you weak-headed milksops who turn with 
shrinking from its seductive charms. 

Sir Arthur was perplexed, as I said before. Being a 
disciple of the weed, he turned for solace to that 
never-failing comforter, and his troubles found relief. 
On his way to the club, the idea of calling on Mrs. 
Vidal, without being able to give a satisfactory 
reason for doing so, seemed impossible. Now a 
great many difficulties in this delightful life are like 
nettles : touch ’em lightly and they sting ; take ’em 
by the horns, metaphorically speaking ; sit on ’em, 
punch ’em in the bread basket, and otherwise treat 
them with contemptuous familiarity, and where are 
they ? Simply nowhere ! they’re squelched ! Now Sir 
Arthur felt that to call upon Mrs. Vidal and inform 
her that he’d had the pleasure of meeting Miss Pauline 
in the middle of the night, — without a chaperon, 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 163 

horrors ! — when she (Mrs. Vidal) imagined her to 
be in bed, might be a straightforward course, but 
hardly the one to inspire that lady with a joyful con- 
fidence in himself, and might lead to Miss Pauline’s 
being so closely watched in future, as to make it ex- 
tremely improbable that he would ever again meet 
her. The idea had occurred to him that No. 37 
Sedley Street might be a sort of private insane 
asylum, and that if so he might get installed there 
himself on the plea of insanity. The idea was not a 
captivating one, so he wisely dismissed it. 

When our hero entered the club, the smoking-room 
was empty. It was bright and comfortably furnished. 
There was a cheery appearance of open-armed wel- 
come in the easy-chairs standing about. The very 
clock on the mantelpiece had a merry lazy tick 
about it that soothed. It had not that exasperating 
hurried manner that most clocks have which seem 
to say, “ Hurry, hurry, young man ; don’t sit idle all 
day, dreaming and^smoking, do something, do some- 
thing, do something, tick, tick, tick, look how busy 
I am. ‘ Life is real, life is earnest. ’ ” On the contrary, 
it said as plainly as though it possessed the power 
of speech : “ Take things easily, young man, tick — 
tick — tick, life is beautiful, keep cool and enjoy it, 
tick, tick, tick.” So Sir Arthur watched it through 
the smoke of his cigar, and smiled at its pretty, 
merry face, and felt comforted. He finished his 
smoke, rose to his feet with the light of purpose in 
his eyes. “ I’ll call on INIrs. Vidal,” he said to him- 
self, “ this very afternoon, by Jove ! and trust to the 


164 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


inspiration of the moment, or to Providence, or any- 
thing at all, for an excuse for my visit. I must get 
to know her some way or other.” 

Accordingly, an hour or so after his luncheon, he 
drove to No. 37 Sedley Street, and rang the bell. 
'I'he door was opened by a small boy in buttons. 

“Is Mrs. Vidal at home ? ” he inquired. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Please take my card up, and ask if I may see 
her. ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Our hero was ushered into the drawing-room 
where he sat down feeling slightly nervous, 
and wondering what earthly excuse he could 
find for the occasion. A minute or two later, Mrs. 
Vidal entered. She was a tall, well-dressed, hand- 
some woman, with a remarkably pleasing expression 
of face. 

Sir Arthur rose to his feet. She walked quickly 
up to him with her hand extended. 

“So you have at last found time to come and see 
me ? ” she smiled. 

For a second Sir Arthur was almost paralyzed with 
astonishment. 

‘ ‘ Stark, staring mad, poor creature. I must humor 
her.” This to himself. Aloud : “I am sure Pm very 
much ashamed of myself, but you know, INIrs. Vidal, 
very few of us can call our time our own nowa- 
days. ” 

“Oh, of course not, you are such a gay lot.” 
Mrs. Vidal looked at him with a curiously amused 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 165 

smile. “Tell me,” she said, “have you reached 
the summit of your ambition yet ? ” 

Sir Arthur g-asped, coughed, tried a conventional 
smile, failed, and in desperation turned his attention 
to the carpet. 

“I see you have not,” she continued, “and I am 
moreover inclined to believe that you have actually 
forgotten what that laudable ambition was.” She 
laughed. 

“ Got ’em shocking bad. Poor thing ! ” to himself. 
“ I — I — I am ashamed to confess that I — I am afraid 
I have,” he stammered aloud. 

“Do you mean to tell me that you have actually 
forgotten your resolve to become Prime Minister? 
You surprise me.” 

“I still have hopes, you know, but so far my 
country has not perceived my remarkable legislative 
ability. When it does,” he laughed, “ the rest will be 
plain sailing.” 

She did not reply at once, but sat, with the same 
amused smile on her face, looking at him. 

Sir Arthur began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. 

“I declare,” she said at length, “you haven’t 
changed a bit, or very little, in appearance.” 

“Very little, indeed,” said Sir Arthur, with an 
attempt at jocularity. 

“You’re twice as big, of course.” 

“Three times I should think.” 

“Then you hadn’t a moustache in those days.” 

“ Not a hair.” 

“You know I met you in the park last Tuesday. 
I recognized you at once.” 


rO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


1 66 

“ Indeed, you don’t say so. I am flattered beyond 
measure.” 

“I couldn’t catch your eye, or I would have 
bowed. ” 

“Heaven be praised!” fervently to himself. 
Aloud : “You should have poked me in the back with 
your parasol,” laughing. 

“ I certainly will, next time.” 

“Thank you, little attentions of that kind from 
old friends tickle one’s vanity.” 

“At the expense of one’s coat.” 

“What is a coat in the cause of friendship ? ” 

She laughed. “ How delightfully refreshing ! And 
yet old Lady What’s-her-name thinks gallantry is 
dying out in the present generation.” 

‘ ‘ Lady What’s-her-name, pardon my saying so, 
is quite wrong there.” 

“Or you have become the smallest wee bit of a 
humbug. Sir Arthur,” with a smile. 

“That is cruel, IVIrs. Vidal. You flattered me be- 
yond expression a few minutes ago by telling me I 
had not changed. I am in despair.” Sir Arthur 
was beginning to enjoy the fun. 

“If you recollect, it was in appearance only I 
said.” 

“Ah, to be sure.” Sir Arthur glanced again at 
the carpet. 

There was a pause, it grew lengthy, he looked up 
at Mrs. Vidal. She was again watching him with 
the same smile, which broke into a hearty laugh as 
she caught his eye. 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 167 

“I’ll wager,” she said, “you’ve forgotten all 
about me ? ” 

“ How can you accuse me of such a thing ? ” 

“Then tell me who 1 was when we used to know 
each other? ” 

“ Easily,” he said, still determined to humor her. 
“Either Mary Queen of Scots, or, perhaps, Boad- 
icea.” 

He looked not impertinently at her as he spoke, 
but with a frank, kindly smile on his face, as though 
he had said the simplest and most natural thug in 
the world. He was quite convinced that he was in 
some sort of a lunatic asylum, and that the lady 
before him was simply a mad woman. He had an 
idea that most mad women, like many sane ones, 
have a decided weakness for titles, and generally 
adopt some historical name. Consequently, he 
thought he would be flattering her mad vanity by 
letting her think that he believed that she had been 
one of the two above-mentioned famous personages. 
Of course it was foolish and rash of him to jump to 
such a conclusion so rapidly, but then he was dis- 
appointed in his visit. He had hoped to find out 
something about Pauline, and, not doing so, grew 
foolish and rash in consequence. It irritated him 
slightly to find the mistress of a private lunatic asy- 
lum, from whom he had hoped to gain information 
of vital importance to his future happiness, a lunatic 
herself, and quite incapable of giving such informa- 
tion. 

At his words Mrs. Vidal turned pale, and gave a 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


1 68 

slight start. She seemed quickly to regain her com- 
posure, however, and summoned the ghost of her 
former smile to her face. 

“How clever of you,” she said, in a voice that 
trembled slightly, “how did you know.?” 

“Oh, I guessed it,” said Sir Arthur airily — “saw 
it at once by your regal cast of countenance ; but I 
want you to tell me which of the two you were, 
Boadicea or IMary Queen of Scots .? ” 

‘ ‘ Why, Boadicea, to be sure. How could you mis- 
take me for the other.” 

“It was stupid of me, I admit,” he said humbly. 
“I have always been slightly lacking in discern- 
ment.” 

For a moment there was a pause, then Mrs. Vidal 
spoke again. 

“May I — may I ask who you are .? ” 

“Who I am .? ” With a swift glance at her, the scene . 
with Pauline returned to his mind. “To be sure; 
why, I am the Queen’s godson.” 

Mrs. Vidal laughed hysterically, then checked 
herself with a frightened look on her face. 

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said, “but I — I 
thought you were. ” 

Sir Arthur smiled encouragingly, then he rose, 
shook hands, and sadly took his departure. 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


169 


CHAPTER VII. 

Among Sir Arthur’s numerous friends and ac- 
quaintances in London, there was a certain Lady 
Standish who deserves to be classed among his 
friends for the reason that she was generous to a de- 
gree in bestowing upon him gratis the most excel- 
lent advice in matters worldly, and never for an 
instant hesitated to tell him the plainest and most 
disagreeable home truths in the plainest possible 
language. She was a small, dark-eyed, fine-feat- 
ured, white-haired woman of about fifty years of 
age, with a snappish tongue and a waspish temper. 
In her youth she had been a great beauty, and, as 
such, had been admired by Sir Arthur's scapegrace 
of a father, who had very nearly succeeded in mar- 
rying her, but not quite. For, with beauty, she 
possessed a certain attribute (not common in the 
sex), namely, sense. Harry Wortley’s cai-rywgs on 
were pretty well known and freely discussed in her 
set, and they were not such as a right-minded young 
gentleman should have any reason to be proud of. 
So she did the wisest thing she could do under the 
circumstances, triumphed over what little love or lik- 
ing she might have felt for that fascinating rake, and 
jTiarried a certain fat, middle-aged, wealthy baronet, 


170 


TO BEDLAM ANDJiACfC. 


Sir George Valentine Stan dish, to wit, quite as 
stupid as he was rich, and as pompous as he was 
stupid, whose first really unselfish action since his 
coming into the world consisted in his going out of 
it five years after his marriage. Lady Standish’s 
bosom friends said that it was her tongue that killed 
him ; she said it was the east wind ; possibly both had 
something to do with it. At any rate at the age of 
twenty-five, or thereabouts, she was left a widow with 
a comfortable income of ^2, 000 per annum. She might 
have married again : she had dozens of opportunities. 
She was besieged by young gentlemen with 
romances seeking consolation, who improvised 
charmingly, and elderly gentlemen without them, 
who did not improvise. Wearisome, drearisome 
politicians, and raving, long-haired poets who 
poured maudlin love in maudlin verse into her 
pretty ears, and talked insanely of some name or 
reputation they intended constructing in the course 
of a year or two. 

To all of them she wisely turned a deaf ear. She 
accepted their foolish adulation for what it was 
worth, and enjoyed the fun, perhaps, somewhat 
better than they did. But matrimony — not if she 
knew it ! She had tried it once, and once for her 
was enough. 

The day after Wortley’s visit to Mrs. Vidal, as 
Lady Standish sat in a low chair before the cheery 
fire in her drawing-room, a visitor was announced. 
She turned her head slightly. 

“My dearest Kate,” she said, extending her hands 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


171 


without rising, “I was just beginning to be bored 
by my own society. How good of you to come ! ” 

The lady thus addressed was of middle age, or, 
perhaps, a little beyond it ; a tall, fair, handsome 
woman with an abundance of light hair done up on 
the top of her head, and blue eyes beneath a pair of 
exquisitely pencilled dark eyebrows. She took the 
two welcoming hands in her own, and, stooping 
down, lightly kissed Lady Standish, who, after the 
salute, waved her to a chair. 

“Sit down, my dear, and excuse my not getting 
up. I am lazy to-day, or perhaps the least little bit 
in the world rheumatic. ” She spoke in a vivacious 
manner, in a pleasant voice, though perhaps rather 
highly pitched. 

Her visitor drew her chair forward to the fire, 
gave her skirt a little pull so as to expose, as well 
as two well-shaped feet, a pair of superbly turned 
ankles to the genial blaze, and leaning back, turned 
her face towards her hostess. 

“ I am sorry to hear that, dear,” she said, in a full 
rich voice; “it is the hateful east wind that has 
been blowing for the last two days, probably.” 

“Oh, I suppose so,” Lady Standish replied rather 
absently. Unlike the generality of old people, her 
ailments did not interest her to the exclusion of 
everything else in the world. In fact, she seldom if 
ever mentioned them, her theory being that half 
a woman’s complaints were imaginary, and the le.ss 
they were cuddled, so to speak, the sooner they 
disappeared. 


172 


ro BEDLAM AND BACK. 


For about twenty minutes the two ladies chatted 
together on different topics, not having the remotest 
bearing on this story, consequently not worthy of 
record here. At length there was a somewhat 
protracted pause, when the younger of the two 
suddenly said, looking fixedly at the other : 

“ By the way, I had a visit from Arthur Wortley. ” 

“Indeed ! I wasn’t aware that you knew him.” 

“I did from the time he was a baby till he was 
sent away to school at about ten ; since then, I have 
never seen him to speak to, till yesterday.” 

She paused as if expecting Lady Standish to make 
some remark, but Lady Standish was apparently 
thinking of something else and remained silent. 

“ It is a terribly sad thing,” she continued. 

“ Terribly sad, — what is, — has the young scamp 
got himself into a scrape } ” 

Lady Standish was all attention at once. 

“You mean to say you don’t know .? ” with a look 
of surprise. 

“Heavens and earth, Kate, what’s he done? 
Run away with a ballet dancer? ” 

“ Much worse,” sadly ; “but I certainly thought 
you would know.” 

“I know nothing, — haven’t seen him for the last 
two months. You alarm me. What is it ? ” 

“He’s as mad as a March hare ! ” 

“ What ? ” Lady Standish sat bolt upright. 

“ Mad as a hatter ! ” . 

“Mad as a fiddlestick! Are you crazy, Kate?” 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


173 

“You mean to say that he was not mad when 
you last saw him ? ” 

“ Mad ! Merciful heavens, no. As sane as you 
or I, Whatever put such an absurd idea into your 
head .? ” 

“Well, if he isn’t mad, he’s certainly very like it.” 

“Why.?” 

Then Mrs. Vidal, for it was none other, told her 
friend the whole story. She wound up by saying : 

“His conversation was sane enough throughout, 
though perhaps a little flippant, till just before he 
went away, when he calmly informed me that he 
knew that at one time I had been either Mary 
Queen of Scots, or Boadicea ! ” 

“ Good heavens ! ” 

“ Yes ; I never got such a shock in my life. If 
poor Pauline had not accustomed me to a person 
in that terrible condition I would certainly have 
fainted.” 

“ What on earth did you do ? ” 

“ I at once concluded him to be mad and thought 
it safer to humor him, so I summoned up my sweet- 
est smile — and you may believe me it was not very 
sweet — and said, ‘ How clever of you ! ’ Then he in- 
sisted upon my telling him which of the two I had 
been, so I told him Boadicea.” 

“Extraordinary ! ” 

“Awful, I think ; he used to be such a nice bright 
boy ; and I never knew of there being insanity in the 
family. ” 

“Never that I know of, and I think I would have 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


174 

found out from poor dear Harry, his father, if there 
had been. It’s quite beyond me.” 

“But the queerest part of the whole affair is this, 

I asked him who he was, wondering if he had also 
forgotten his own identity ; and who do you think he 
said he was .? ” 

Lady Standish shrugged her shoulders. 

“The Queen’s godson ! ” 

“Heaven be kind to us! Good Lord!” Lady 
Standish positively gasped. ‘ ‘ It’s the most astonish- 
ing piece of news I ever heard in the whole course 
of my existence. I actually feel faint.” 

Shortly after delivering her extraordinary piece of 
news Mrs. Vidal took her departure. 

Hardly had the door closed when another visitor 
was announced — a portly gentleman of about forty, 
]\Ir. Waters by name — a man with nothing earthly 
to do in life but dawdle through it, and quite 
satisfied with the occupation, or want of it. At any 
other time. Lady Standish would have been in 
despair at the advent of this personage, for he was 
a most successful bore. But to-day she was 
delighted to see him : for this reason, he and Wortley 
were members of the same club. If Wortley were 
as mad as Mrs. Vidal believed, surely one of the men 
in his own set, whom he met half a dozen times a 
week, would know something of it. 

“Have you seen anything of Sir Arthur Wortley 
lately ? ” she inquired after a few moments’ conver- 
sation. 

“Sir Arthur Wortley! Yes, seen him several 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


175 

times ; dined with him at Mrs. Fortesque-Smith’s 
last night.” 

‘ ‘ Indeed 1 How is he ? He is one of my particular 
friends, you know.” 

‘ ‘ Lucky fellow ; as far as I could make out, flourish- 
ing. He brought in the Yankee beauty we’re all 
raving about.” 

“Plow very interesting ! I hope you are not rav- 
ing about her too ? ” 

“ Of course I am. We’re all learning to ‘I guess ’ 
and ‘ I say ’ and ‘ Happy to make your acquaintance, 
sir,' as her terrible brother says.” 

“Indeed, how very refreshing! Are you picking 
up the accent too } ” 

“Heaven forbid I ” 

Lady Standish leaned her head on her hand, and 
gazed thoughtfully into the fire. 

“So Sir Arthur Wortley is going in for the Ameri- 
can, eh ? ” 

“ I didn’t say he was going in for her. I said he 
brought her in to dinner. Going in for her 1 Not a 
bit of it. He’s not going in for any one as far as I 
can make out.” 

“I heard some time ago that he was somewhat 
epris of Ethel Buckley ? ” said Lady Standish. 

“ Don’t believe it,” replied Mr. Waters, “ he isn’t 
the marrying kind ; he knows when he’s well off, you 
know. ” 

“Thank you, Mr. Waters,” with uncommon sweet- 
ness. 

“Oh, come, I say. Lady Standish, you know.” 


176 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


“Why so many of the sex have wasted their affec- 
tions on the lesser brutes, such as horses and dogs, 
perfectly, my dear INIr. Waters.” 

“That’s rough on a chap.” Mr. Waters looked 
uncomfortable. 

“Rough on a chap, — rough on a chap ! what a 
very odd expression. Is that one of the pretty 
American’s, or her terrible brother’s } Sounds more 
like the latter. I have heard of ‘ rough on rats,’ but 
never of ‘rough on chaps.’ Her smile became 
awfully sweet. So sweet, in fact, that Waters trem- 
bled, and soon afterwards took his departure. 

No sooner had he disappeared than Lady Standish, 
seating herself at a small writing-table in the cor- 
ner of the room, wrote a short note to Sir Arthur, 
telling him she particularly desired to see him, and 
would he kindly call the day after to-morrow — 
INIonday — at about three o’clock. 

Monday arrived, and punctually at three Sir Arthur 
was announced. 

Lady Standish, sitting bolt upright (in close prox- 
imity to the bell), received him with an arctic shake 
of the hand, and a not-to-be-mollilied expression of 
countenance. So much so that our hero felt dis- 
tinctly nervous. 

“ Humph.” She surveyed him calmly from head to 
foot. “Don’t stand fidgeting there; sit down.” 
(N. B. — He wasn’t fidgeting, but he was much too 
sensible to say so, and meekly seated himself.) 

“A nice kettle of fish you’ll have to fry ! So 
you’ve been playing the fool lately, I hear.” 


To BEDLAM AND BACN. 


ni 

“ I beg your pardon.” Sir Arthur flushed, and 
began casting about in his mind as to what he had 
been doing lately to get her ladyship’s back up, as 
he irreverently termed it. “I am not aware of 
having played the fool lately. ” 

“Humph!” Indignant snort. “ You’re not, eh. 
Then what in the name of common sense do you 
mean by frightening unprotected ladies nearly into 
fits? That is what I wish to know, and what I insist 
upon knowing.” 

Sir Arthur opened his eyes to their fullest, and 
stared at his questioner. 

“ Frightening unprotected ladies into fits!” lie 
repeated her words in considerable bewilderment. 

“Exactly so, stupid; frightening unprotected 
ladies into fits , — fils I say. Don’t you understand 
English, or shall I repeat the question in French for 
your benefit ? ” 

“It’ll be quite lost if you do,” he replied, recover- 
ing somewhat, “but upon my word of honor. Lady 
Standish, I don’t understand you.” 

“You don’t, eh? Now look here, Arthur, once for 
all, are you mad or sane ? ” 

“ I really believed myself to be sane on entering 
your drawing-room, but now, upon my word, I don’t 
quite know what to think. ” 

“Humph ! Then what in the name of all that’s 
miraculous do you mean by informing everybody 
that you are ‘ the Queen’s godson ’ ? ” 

If Lady Standish had suddenly turned into a mon- 
key, or anything else equally surprising had happened, 
12 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


178 

Sir Arthur could not possibly have expressed greater 
surprise or confusion. He flushed a brilliant scarlet 
to the roots of his closely cropped hair, then turned 
pale. 

“Now do you understand me ? ” said Lady Stand- 
ish triumphantly. 

“ Who told you that ? ” he asked, rather savagely. 

“Don’t you dare to speak to me in that tone of 
voice, you impertinent young scamp.” 

Sir Arthur was himself again ; there came an omi- 
nous light in his blue eyes. 

“ Impertinent young scamp,” he repeated slowly. 
“I am much obliged to you. Lady Standish.” 

“Fiddlesticks ! Now tell me what you mean by 
posing as ‘ the Queen’s godson ’ ? ” 

“Supposing the impertinent young scamp refuses ; 
he is quite capable of doing so.” Sir Arthur lei- 
surely rose as he spoke, apparently to go. 

“You are very like your father, my dear, when 
you get into a temper, but you’re not nearly as good- 
looking.” A gentler look came over the handsome 
old face. 

“ I never posed as a beauty.” 

“Merciful powers ! I should hope not. Now sit 
down, you silly boy, and tell me all about it,” 

“ But who told you that I posed as ‘the Queen’s 
godson ’ ? ” 

“ Mrs. Vidal, of course ; Kate Vidal.” 

“The devil she did! I beg your pardon,” — Sir 
Arthur coughed, — “but I am a little bit aston- 
ished.” 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


179 


“So I perceive.” 

“She’s as mad as they make ’em.” 

“Fiddle !” 

“ Possibly so ; but the fact remains the same, she’s 
mad. ” 

“Exactly what she said of you, last Saturday.” 

“Of me?” 

“Yes.” 

“Upon my word. I’m much obliged.” 

“What else can you expect when you persist in 
playing the fool ? ” 

“Playing the fool ? ” 

“To be sure.” 

“ I play the fool ? ” 

“Of course, you exasperating lunatic, you play 
the fool, when you call on a lady and inform her 
that you are ‘the Queen’s godson.”' 

“She informed me she was Boadicea.” 

“When you insisted upon her being either that 
historical personage, or Mary Queen of Scots, what 
else could the poor woman do ? She couldn’t very 
well be both.” 

“She talked the most utter drivel to me, asked 
me if I had reached the summit of my ambition, and 
when I politely let her see that I had not the re- 
motest idea what that might be, she informed me that 
I had been ambitious of becoming Prime Minister of 
England. ” 

“Look here, Arthur, have you forgotten Kate 
Cavendish, the pretty, fair-haired young woman who 
used to romp with you when you were a child ? ” 


i8o TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 

“ Good heavens ! is Mrs. Vidal Kate Cavendish ? 

“She is.” 

“Then my goose is cooked,” Sir Arthur groaned. 

“ Now tell me what led to this call and all about 
it, like a good boy.” 

“I will,” was his reply, and he told the whole 
story about the bet with Carew,— everything, even 
including his interview with Pauline. He omitted, 
however, to mention his having rented the house. 

“Kate should be told of that poor girl’s wander- 
ings at night,” said Lady Standish. 

“ I suppose so,” Wortley assented, somewhat 
feebly. 

“You might call and tell her the story. You 
certainly owe her an explanation of your absurd 
conduct. ” 

“ Wouldn’t it be better for you to write first } She 
might refuse to see me, as she believes me to be a 
lunatic.” 

“Very good, I’ll write.” 

“ Is — she hopelessly insane .? ” 

“Pauline? Yes, hopelessly so, poor girl.” 

“ Is it hereditary with her ? ” 

“ Hereditary, no ; it was caused by a shock. Her 
grandfather was murdered in one of the rooms of 
No. 2 , where she used to live, — the dining-room if I 
remember rightly, — murdered by his valet or butler. 
She discovered his body ; the sight terrified her to 
such an extent that she fainted away. She recovered 
her consciousness in a short time, but never her 
reason, poor child.” 


TO BEDLAM AND BACN. 


i8l 


“Horrible ! ” exclaimed Wortley. 

“Ah, yes, Arthur, it was terrible. She was so 
clever and bright before. The only thing that we 
can hope for now is that she may die, poor pretty 
creature.” 

“And was the fiend that committed the crime 
never punished .? ” 

“Never; he vanished in the most marvellous 
manner, and has never been heard of since.” 

Wortley rose to his feet. 

“I must go now,” he said. “You won’t forget 
to write to Mrs. Vidal now, will you. Lady Stand- 
ish ? ” 

' “Trust me, Arthur. Good-bye ; be a good boy and 
come and see me when you have nothing better to 
do.” 

‘ ‘ Could I have anything better to do ? ” he laughed, 
and bowing took his departure. 

Lady Standish, left to herself, leaned back in her 
chair. A thoughtful expression came into her dark 
eyes. 

“ He’s got his father’s voice. Poor dear Harry, 
your kindness and generosity were your bane, you 
poor wrong-headed dear.” She sat up with a queer 
little laugh. “What an old fool I am, to be sure, 
but the boy with that voice of his brings back the 
old days, — dear old days. Heigh-ho ! ” 


i 82 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

At eight o’clock on the evening of the same day 
that Sir Arthur called on Lady Standish, as he sat 
reading in his room, his valet came to him. 

“ If you please, Sir Arthur, a brother of mine 
arrived this morning from Australia, and wants me 
to come and see him this evening, if you can spare 
me, Sir Arthur. ” 

Sir Arthur was an indulgent master, and besides 
he rather liked that peculiar valet of his, so he re- 
plied : 

“ Certainly, Tompkins. I am not going out my- 
self and will not require you. Go, by all means. ” 

“ Thank you. Sir Arthur.” 

A few minutes later Tompkins left the house, and 
walked briskly away. He had scarcely gone any 
distance when an empty hansom passed, which he 
hailed. “To Morton Gardens,” he said, stepping 
in. Apparently, he had entirely forgotten his Aus- 
tralian brother, or possibly he intended calling upon 
him afterwards. He seemed to be on particularly 
good terms with himself that evening, for every little 
while he would chuckle agreeably to himself, and 
rub his hands, as though in the enjoyment of some 
capital joke. 


TO BEDLAM AATD BACA' 183 

“ So you don’t want me at all this evening, don't 
you, ha, ha, ha ! Coin’ to sit at home in the agree- 
able pursoot o’ literatoor, ha, ha, ha ! Nice, quiet, re- 
spectable young gent. Hang me if I ain’t a-gettin’ 
domesticated myself. Coin’ to see a brother from 
Australia, ha. ha, ha ! Williams, my boy, but you do 
be a nice, slick-tongued, smooth-spoken young man, 
you be, with all that ere paralyzing, fraternal solici- 
tood, ha, ha, ha ! ” 

With such-like harmless little pleasantries Sir 
Arthur’s promising valet whiled away the time, till 
the cab slowed up at the entrance to Morton 
Gardens. 

“ What ’ouse, sir ? ” inquired his Jehu. 

“ Oh, anywhere ; this will do. I'll get out here.” 

Accordingly Tompkins alighted, tossed the driver 
a shilling, and strolled leisurely up the pavement in 
the direction of No 2. Arrived opposite the house, 
with a rapid glance up and down the street to see 
that no one was observing him, he marched boldly 
up to the front door, which he quickly unlocked by 
means of a piece of crooked steel — in all probability 
the same instrument with which he had unlocked the 
upper left hand drawer of Sir Arthur’s desk. He 
seemed familiar with the interior, for he moved 
across the hall, and pushed the library door open be- 
fore striking a light. He then lit a candle, which he 
drew, wrapped in paper, from his pocket. The first 
object that caught his eye was Pauline’s cloak, where 
Sir Arthur had left it hanging over a chair, so that she 
might find it the next time she visited the house. 


184 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


“ Humph ! ” he remarked, examining it. “A enter- 
tainin’ of some gal ! That’s your little game, is it ? 
Always some blessed woman in every little racket. 
They do beat all. ” He next noticed his master’s tra\'^l- 
ling rug and a novel lying on the floor, which he 
kicked contemptuously aside. Also two candles 
standing on one of the shelves. These he lighted. He 
then examined the front window, drew the bolt, and 
found that it would open easily, also the shutters. He 
next made a survey of the house, and returned with 
a bottle, half filled with excellent Scotch whiskey, 
and three bottles of soda water, which Sir Arthur had 
left in the upper front room. Seating himself in the 
arm-chair in which Pauline had sat, with the railway 
rug thrown over his knees, he mixed himself a stiff 
drink, and, being in a somewhat lazy mood, deter- 
mined to take things easily for a time. If Sir Arthur 
was in the habit of meeting some woman here regular- 
ly, it seemed to him that he would have the place a lit- 
tle more comfortably furnished. That a woman had 
been there was pretty clear, or how account for the 
cloak.!* Tompkins glanced round the room. “It’s 
familiar lookin’, and yet agin it ain’t familiar. Plow 
well I mind the old man a-sittin’ jest about where I 
am,” soliloquised he, “and the gal, that he was that 
proud of, she were a daisy, a fiery little she-devil, an’ 
no mistake. What eyes — Jerusalem ! I can most 
fancy I see ’em, black as jet, with a sparkle in ’em 
like sunlight for all the world. ” Tompkins finished his 
glass. “ But what clean knocks me gaily west,” he 
continued reflectively, “ is how in blazes did Sir 


TO BEDLAM AND BACA' 


185 


Arthur get holt o’ that ere book o’ rhymes of hers ? ” 
He brewed himself another drink. “ Found it like 
enough in one o’ the drawers upstairs.” He raised 
his glass to his lips, and just in the act of drinking 
paused. Pit, pat, pit, pat, first faint then louder, as 
the sound approached along the passage. He laid 
the glass noiselessly down, and rose to his feet. 
“Some one cornin’, an’ a woman at that, or I’m a 
bloomin’ fool.” The sound ceased outside the door 
leading into the hall. “ Like as not the gal Sir 
Arthur’s a-runnin’ thinks he's here,” said Tompkins 
to himself. He had no nervous fears ; the thought of 
anything supernatural never entered his shrewd head. 

The door opened, and Pauline Astley entered. 

“The devil!” exclaimed Tompkins ; his jaw 
dropped, and he stared at her. 

“ Ha, ha, ha ! ” laughed Pauline, and danced across 
the room with a mad grace that would have be- 
witched an angel. “ The Duchess thinks I am at 
home you know, ha, ha, ha ! ” She stopped sud- 
denly and looked hard at the man before her. A 
troubled, half-frightened look came into her face. 
“ Ah, you are not the same.” She backed up to the 
wall, and leaning against it, stood trembling. Mean- 
while Tompkins had recovered from his astonish- 
ment. 

“ You ! ” he exclaimed, rising to his feet. His thin, 
clean-shaven face looked cruel and pitiless in the 
candle-light. A devil incarnate would have felt com- 
passion for her exquisite helplessness, one would 
have thought ; but, alas 1 in this world there are men 


iS6 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


more wicked than devils, and the man before her was 
one of those. Pity or fear he had never known. 
Tenderness, the desire to shelter the weak, had never 
found a dwelling in his heart. The girl’s evident 
terror seemed to inspire him with a certain feeling 
of satisfaction. Pie looked curiously at her for a few 
moments ; perhaps her remarkable beauty appealed 
to him; it would seem impossible it could do other- 
wise than appeal to any human creature. He ad- 
vanced slowly towards her, a horrid smile upon his 
lips. When within a yard of her, he folded his arms 
and stood still. 

“So, Miss Pauline,” — at the sound of his voice she 
shivered, and her great dark eyes grew darker, as 
they became riveted in charmed fear upon his face, 
— “you’ve come to meet your young man, have 
you } Upon my word ! ” Her madness had not 
become apparent to him. “But I’m afraid, my 
pretty dear. Sir Arthur isn’t a-comin’ this night, so 
you’ll just have to put up with me, my beauty.” 

Silence, and the same terrified fixed stare were the 
only- response ; he continued in *a tone which he 
erroneously believed to be excessively tender : 

“Come, come, you’ve no call to be afraid, if you’ll 
only be accommodating and nice. I always did like 
that pretty face of yours, but hang me if I ever 
expected such a chance as this ! ” 

With a sudden quick movement he leaned for- 
ward, and caught her slender wrists. 

“ Oh, oh, oh ! ” she cried with a little gasping sob. 

“By Pleaven ! you must kiss me.” 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 187 

He drew her slowly towards him with resistless 
force. 

****** 

Now, it so happened that Sir Arthur, half an hour 
after his valet’s departure, began to tire of his book. 
He tossed it aside, grew restless, and, rising, began 
pacing his room. 

“By Jove ! ” he exclaimed, “what’s the use of 
attempting to read } I feel worried and anxious, 
though, upon my word, I don't know what I’ve got to 
be anxious about. I’ll take a walk." Accordingly 
away he went. 

When he set out he had no intention of going 
to any place in particular ; but just as the moth, 
we are told, is attracted to the flame, so, by some 
peculiar magnetism. Sir Arthur’s steps turned in 
the direction of Morton Gardens. The same mag- 
netism doubtless guided him by way of Sedley 
Street. There was a light in one of the upper 
windows. Lover-like, he gazed up at it for a few 
moments, wondering if it could be the room of poor 
Pauline. Then he wandered slowly on. 

At the corner of Sedley Street and Morton Gardens 
there stood the regular corner lamp, and by its light 
he noticed a big brass plate, with the inscription 
“Dr. C. D. Ross,” in large letters, upon it. He read 
the name without interest and passed on. In a few 
minutes he was opposite No. 2. 

He glanced curiously at the house where he had 
passed so many strange nights. An exclamation 
rose to his lips ; he stood stock-still and stared ! 


i88 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


There could be no mistake about it : through the 
chinks in the library blinds several rays of yellow- 
light stole. There must be some one in the house. 
“Who,” he asked himself, feeling strangely startled, 
“ could it be .? ” No one had a better right than he 
to inquire into the mystery, and accordingly he de- 
termined to do so. 

He walked quietly up to the window. There was a 
wide chink just about on a level with his eye, and 
looking through it, this is what he saw. The back 
of his valet — whom, by the way, he didn’t recognize 
— and Pauline leaning against the wall. The light 
from the candles shone full upon her face, and re- 
vealed to him the look of terror in it. That was 
enough for Sir Arthur. Muttering something expres- 
sive of anything but good-will towards the man, he 
mounted the front steps, and as quietly as possible 
turned the handle. His valet had not locked the door 
on entering, and it opened, but, alas ! with a very 
audible rusty creak. 

5k ♦ * * 

The sound of that opening door was heard by 
Tompkins. Loosening his hold upon the slender 
wrists, swiftly, panther- like, he sprang across the 
room to the window. With a quick wrench he 
pulled it open and stood waiting, his right hand in 
his coat-pocket. With a low cry Pauline fell, face 
downwards, upon the floor, and lay still. At the 
same instant the library door was flung open, and 
Sir Arthur entered the room. 

For an instant, he stood motionless. His valet 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 189 

drew his hand from his pocket with something in it. 
The silence was broken by the click of a cocking 
pistol. There is something very suggestive about 
that sharp metallic click, — something that at such a 
time will make the blood in a brave fellow’s veins 
run like fire. As Byron says so feelingly, possibly 
speaking from experience : 

“ It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, 

That cocking of a pistol, when you know 
A moment more will bring the sight to bear 
Upon your person, twelve yards off or so.” 

Pauline’s figure stretched upon the floor was the 
first object Sir Arthur’s glance rested upon. For 
one supreme moment he forgot all else. Rushing 
to her side, he raised her head and shoulders tenderly 
in his arms ; she moaned pitifully as he did so. 
Across her face, so still and white, a tiny stream of 
blood trickled from a wound a little above the left 
temple. In falling she had struck her poor head 
against the corner of a chair. Quickly and as ten- 
derly as he had raised her, he laid her down. Tomp- 
kins with his left hand pushed the shutters open. 
Sir Arthur rose to his feet, his face pale as it was 
possible for it to become through the tan from many 
a good day’s hunting. He faced the man before him. 
“ You, Tompkins, damn you ! ”he exclaimed, spring- 
ing towards him. Quick as a flash, the revolver was 
brought to bear ; a ringing report crashed through 
the room. Sir Arthur felt a stinging sensation in his 
left shoulder, then he was within hitting distance 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


190 

of his man, and struck at him with all the force of 
his right, with the weight of his body to back it — a 
blow that doubtless would have felled his adversary 
had it taken effect, but, alas ! it did not, — it missed 
him, clean as a whistle ! 

Now, apart from the worthy Tompkins being a 
good barber, he, to use his own expression, “knew 
a thing or two,” and one of the things was a knowl- 
edge of the art of self-defence. Sir Arthur was ex- 
cited; Tompkins was not. He never allowed him- 
self under any circumstances whatever to become ex- 
cited. It was “ tryin’ to the constitootion,” so he said. 

Against a cool head, and a muscular, practised arm, 
what was likely to follow ? Exactly what did. Tomp- 
kins dropped his revolver, jerked his head sufficiently 
to the left to allow Sir Arthur’s fist to pass over his 
right shoulder, and countered with all his force with 
his right. The impetus of the rush added force to 
the blow, which took effect between the eyes, and 
over our hero went prone upon his back, where, as 
Truthful James would say, the “subsequent proceed- 
ings interested him no more,” — at least, not for some 
moments. It was neatly and cleverly done, so 
thought Tompkins, as with a slightly amused smile 
he picked his revolver from the floor, and returned it 
to his pocket. Then he calmly drained the tumbler 
of Scotch and soda which he had mixed, prior to 
Pauline’s appearance, blew the candles out, and, 
without a thought as to the condition of his two un- 
fortunate victims, jumped lightly from the window, 
and, so far as Sir Arthur was concerned, vanished 


TO BEDLAJ/ AA^D BACA'. 


191 

from his world for the future, as completely as a 
puff of smoke. 

When Sir Arthur came to himself, possibly three 
minutes later, he was conscious of a battered feeling 
about the region of the eyes, a singing in his ears, 
and an acute pain in his left shoulder. For a mo- 
ment he did not realize what had happened, but sat 
in the dark staring stupidly out of the open window. 
Then like a flash he remembered all. “ Pauline ! 
Merciful heavens! what had become of her?” he 
asked himself in an agony of mind. For the time 
his aches and pains were all forgotten. He staggered 
dizzily to his feet ; fortunately he had matches in his 
pocket. He struck one, and quickly lighted the can- 
dles. Pauline lay upon the floor as he had left her. 
A terrible fear took possession of him, she lay so 
still. Her face, turned slightly from him, rested on 
one rounded arm. Sir Arthur was distracted; he 
knelt by her side. 

“ Pauline,” he said, “ dear, dear Pauline, speak to 
me.” He clasped one of her little hands in his, and 
began chafing it. Then he grew calmer all at once, 
and behaved like a rational being. Taking the rail- 
way rug which had been left in the room, he spread 
it upon the floor, then raising the slight girlish form 
in his arms, he laid her gently on the rug, and with 
his coat formed a pillow for her head. This done, 
he closed and bolted the window and blinds, and 
started at a run for Dr. Ross, whose name he sud- 
denly remembered having read on a brass plate at 
the corner of the street. 


TO BEDLAM AND BACN. 


192 

Two minutes later that hitherto unheard-of medi- 
cal luminary, a pale-faced, bright-eyed young man, 
was summoned from a very delectable supper of 
cold roast beef, brown bread, and a pewter of beer 
by an ear-splitting peal from the front door-bell. 
Softly murmuring “ Hang it ! ” for he never for one 
instant imagined it to be a patient, he left his supper 
and hurriedly opened the door. On the step he be- 
held a young man of a villainous cast of counte- 
nance, in his shirt-sleeves. Said young man ap- 
peared agitated, also warm. (N. B. — Distance from 
No. 2 Morton Gardens to corner of Sedley Street 123 
yards, time about twelve seconds. Is it any won- 
der?) 

Agitated young gentleman — “Is Dr. Ross at 
home ? ” 

INIedical luminary — “I am Dr. Ross.” 

A. Y. G. — “Then come on, no time to jaw.” Jerks 
M. L. into the street by the arm. 

M. L. — “This is an extraordinary proceeding, 
sir,” very indignant. 

A. Y. G. — “ Hang it, man, come on.” ' 

M. L. — “My hat, sir.” 

A. Y. G. — “ Oh, damn your hat, sir.” 

M. L. — “Anybody ill, sir?” 

A. Y. G. — “ Half dead, sir,” with a groan. 

M. L. and A. Y. G. break into a run, and a 
minute later M. L., considerably surprised at the 
situation, is bending over Pauline. 

“She received a blow on the head in falling ; I am 
afraid it is cut, "said Sir Arthur, in an agonized tone. 


TO BEDLAM AND BACN. 


193 

“The bruise on her head is nothing,” said the 
doctor — ‘ ‘ a mere scratch, ” He turned to Sir Arthur. 
“ Is she subject to epilepsy ? ” he inquired. 

“ I don’t know, — I — I really know next to nothing 
of her. Why ? ” 

“This looks very like the beginning of an epi- 
leptic fit,” he replied, as he passed his hand through 
her hair, feeling the skull with long sensitive fingers. 
“Extraordinary !” he exclaimed. 

“What is it.?” 

“Her skull has been fractured.” 

“Good God ! I understood you to say the blow 
she received was nothing.” 

“The blow she received this evening was noth- 
ing.” 

“ What do you mean ,? ” 

“ Simply that this is an old fracture, ” 

Sir Arthur was silent. 

“You don’t know, of course, anything about a 
blow she might have received prior to this one — say, 
three or four years ago .? ” 

Sir Arthur shook his head. 

“The left side of her brain is affected,” said the 
doctor, after a moment’s pause. 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“Look at her right hand.” 

Sir Arthur looked : it was twitching in a nervous, 
spasmodic manner. 

“That tells me nothing.” 

“ To me it speaks volumes.” The doctor smiled 
superior. 

13 


194 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


“Wonderful!” exclaimed Sir Arthur. He was 
beginning to feel a remarkable confidence in this 
bright-eyed, pale-faced young man. 

“Perhaps you can tell me whether her mind was 
affected ? ” 

Sir Arthur nodded. 

“ Well ? ” said the doctor. 

“She — she is mad.” Sir Arthur’s voice shook as 
he said the awful word. He turned his head away. 

The doctor finished his examination of her skull 
at this point, and looked up. “Where does she 
live ? ” 

“37 Sedley Street.” 

“Excellent ! You had better run for a cab.” 

Away ran our hero obediently. 

“ It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good.” 
So says the proverb. Here was a wind that had 
blown not only a patient, but a remarkably interest- 
ing case into the hands of a remarkably clever young 
man. Ye Gods! it might be Fame? — intoxicating 
thought ! Dr. Ross rubbed his well-shaped hands 
together, and contemplated the exquisite creature on 
the floor before him, much, I fear, as a botanist would 
a rare species of plant, with intense interest but no 
pity ! 

Fortunately for Sir Arthur, an empty “four- 
wheeler” turned the corner of Sedley Street just as 
he arrived there. I say fortunately, because the ex- 
citement over, as our hero left No. 2, he began to 
feel faint and ill. He noticed for the first time that 
the left side of his shirt was saturated with blood, 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


19s 


but he felt sure the bleeding had stopped, as his 
undershirt was sticking to his wounded shoulder. 
“ No. 2 Morton Gardens,” he said to the driver as he 
seated himself. He remembered nothing further 
for some time. On arriving there the driver was 
somewhat startled to discover his fare lying half 
on the seat, and half in the bottom of the cab, in a 
dead faint. Here is romance for you, here is chiv- 
alry — the hero fainting from exhaustion and loss of 
blood in his noble attempt to succor the heroine ! 
Glorious ! Quelle situation I 
At length he partially came to himself. He was 
puzzled at first to know exactly where he was. The 
immediate past seemed a dream to him, dim and 
unreal. He heard a door closing ; it seemed far 
away. A man stooped over him and said something. 
He tried to answer, but could not ; the power of speech 
seemed to have deserted him. Next, he was aware of 
ajoltingsensation, a feeling of movement. Curiously 
enough, though he knew that he was himself passing 
through some kind of experience, he felt as though 
he were some other person looking at his actual 
self from that other mythical person’s standpoint. 
Reality shrouded in a mist of unreality, or, in other 
words, unreality staring rudely at poor reality through 
the wrong end of a telescope ; consequently reality 
dwindled to insignificance, and seemed miles away. 
No sooner had the jolting begun than Sir Arthur be- 
came again unconscious. When he next came to, he 
found himself in a small bed in a bright though 
plainly furnished little room. On a table, near his 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


196 

head, there was a bouquet of roses in a tumbler. In 
a vase in the window stood a bouquet of heliotrope. 
A picture of a scarlet-coated gentleman, mounted on 
an impossible hunter, jumping an impossible five- 
barred gate, occupied a conspicuous position on the 
wall directly facing him. Possibly, without being 
aware of the fact, for at least ten minutes Sir Arthur 
gazed upon this chef d'oeuvre, and was moved to pity 
at the thought of the supreme anguish any horse of 
a well-regulated instinct would feel at being re- 
produced so painfully out of drawing. 

Then the recollection of his little adventure at No. 
2 returned to his mind. How was Pauline ? What 
had become of her? But how was he to find out? 
that was the question. He attempted to rise, but 
discovered, much to his surprise, that he was too 
weak. There was no bell that he could reach ; in 
fact, he could see none at all, so he shouted. 

“ Hullo there ! I say, doctor ! Hi there ! ” in a 
very weak, quavering voice. No answer. 

Then he swore, quietly but firmly, with a like 
result as far as attracting attention went, but he 
felt distinctly relieved, as any properly dispositioned 
man would. Next, he did the wisest thing under 
the circumstances, coughed twice, scratched his 
right ear meditatively, yawned three times, and fell 
into a sound sleep. 

When he awakened some three hours later. Dr. 
Ross was bending over him. He felt wonderfully 
refreshed. 

“ Hullo, doctor ! where the deuce am I ? ” 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 197 

“At No. 43 Sedley Street, and getting along 
famously, but you mustn’t talk or excite yourself. ” 

“ Is — is she safe ? ” There could be but one she, 
so wisely concluded the man addressed. 

“Right as a trivet, with her own people,” he 
replied with a smile, “but you mustn’t say another 
word. You will hear all about it to-morrow ; now 
go to sleep, like a good fellow.” 

Sir Arthur, his mind relieved, was wonderfully 
obedient. He went to sleep and slumbered with 
amazing persistency till nine the following morning. 
On opening his eyes, the first thing he beheld was 
the doctor in a shabby-looking old dressing-gown, 
seated in an easy-chair reading. He laid down his 
book at a movement of his patient’s. 

“Well, how do you feel this morning.?” he, 
inquired. 

“ Fit as a fiddle, excepting for a slight soreness 
in my left shoulder.” 

“ Hungry ?” 

“ Ravenous.” 

“Capital; the shoulder is nothing, don’t amount 
to shucks, a mere flesh-wound. How did you 
get it ? ” 

Sir Arthur told him. As he finished speaking, his 
eyes wandered to the bouquets of heliotrope and 
roses. Their perfume was delightful. The doctor’s 
glance followed his. 

“From Mrs. Vidal, and the heliotrope came yes- 
terday morning from your steward’s wife in Devon- 
shire, with numerous anxious inquiries. ” 


198 TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 

“Mrs. Vidal Sir Arthur repeated in astonish- 
ment. 

The doctor nodded. “ Mrs. Vidal and a Lady 
Standish, I think her name is, call every day.” 

“ You are all too kind,” Sir Arthur murmured. 

“Too kind!” The clever young man before 
him gave a curious little laugh. “ My dear sir, I am 
a made man — through you.” 

Sir Arthur smiled incredulously. 

“ When you are well again, Mrs. Vidal will receive 
you with open arms. The young lady. Miss Pauline, 
is saved, thanks to you.” 

Sir Arthur gave a great start. “ Saved ?” he ex- 
claimed, turning pale, “ what do you mean ? ” 

“She is perfectly sane.” 

“What?” 

The doctor repeated what he had said. 

“Thank God I ” exclaimed Sir Arthur, with tears in 
his eyes. “ But tell me all about it, it is glorious 1 ” 
In the exuberance of his joy he held out his hand. 
The doctor wrung it. 

“ My diagnosis was correct,” he began with 
pardonable pride. “ I suggested a certain surgical 
operation, the trephining of the skull, that is, cutting 
a hole in it” (Sir Arthur shuddered), “just over 
the affected portion of the brain. She had an epi- 
leptic fit just as you left to get a cab. I expected 
one by that nervous twitching of the hand. That 
same twitching located the lesion. I got her safely 
home. Sir William Brumley wafe sent for, and we 
had a consultation. He agreed entirely to what I 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


199 


suggested. The following day, a surgeon was 
called in, and a portion of the skull removed, which 
disclosed a thickening of the dura mater. This 
pressing upon the brain caused idiocy. The surgeon 
removed it ; the cure of her mind v/as instantaneous. 
She will recover from the operation in a week or ten 
days more, and be as sound in mind and body for 
the future as you or I.” 

“ Miraculous ! ” exclaimed Sir Arthur. 

“Not at all, simply scientific,” said the doctor, 
smiling. He took up his book, and began reading 
again. 

Sir Arthur lay still, silently thinking ; he had 
ample food for reflection. The doctor spoke again. 

“She is overcome by grief at the death of her 
grandfather, poor girl.” 

‘ ‘ But that happened years ago. ” 

“To her those years are a blank. It is just as 
though it happened yesterday. ” 

“Poor girl ! ” 

“I remember a case in one of the hospitals. A 
man had his skull fractured from a fall, just as she 
had. He was in the act of speaking when he fell. 
For five years he went about, an idiot. The same 
operation was performed on him. His cure also 
was instantaneous. The first words he uttered 
were a completion of that sentence begun five years 
before. To him time had stood still. What do you 
think of that ? ” 


200 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


CHAPTER IX. 

At the distance of about 6,000 miles from foggy, 
merry England, via New York and the Canadian 
Pacific Railway, on the western slope of that great 
range of mountains, which, like a backbone, runs 
from north to south along the continent of America, 
lies a level track of country named the Sumass 
Prairie. In extent it is about thirty miles long, 
varying from two to five miles in width. The 
rapid, muddy Fraser River forms its northern boun- 
dary. It is situated in British Columbia, fifty miles 
from the Pacific coast, and within easy reach of the 
United States boundary line. Herds of cattle make 
pretty blotches of color in the brilliant green of the 
prairie, while their distant lowing is carried to your 
ear on the breeze. Flocks of geese, widgeon, and 
mallard frequent the numerous sloughs which wind 
serpent-like everywhere. Occasionally, the jingle of 
spurs breaks, with a not unmusical sound, the wild 
quiet of the place, as a Chinook Indian, or a devil- 
may-care looking cowboy, sitting well down in the 
great INIexican saddle, looking as though he were 
part of the horse, with long stirrup and loose rein, 
loops past on his wiry little cayiisc (native horse). 
What a picture he is in his ragged shirt, (the brim of 
his soft felt hat shading the weather-beaten face,) 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


201 


with his heavy top-boots, and clinking Mexican 
spurs, an inch and a half in diameter. They are the 
men that can ride, those thriftless, excitement-loving 
western nomads. 

Fine fellows they are too, many of those cowboys, 
splendidly reckless, magnificently careless of the 
future. Boon companions round the cheery camp- 
fire, good at a song, and better at a yarn, my heart 
yearns for your kindly company again, dear rough- 
visaged, gentle-hearted friends of the past. 

Two miles or so beyond the west end of the Su- 
mass Prairie, at a junction of a branch line of the 
C. P. R. with one of the American Roads, a number 
of frame buildings and log shanties had been erected. 
It was the beginning of what the Yankees term a 
“ live town,” and was peopled, as such places in- 
variably are, by gamblers, loafers, thieves, land- 
sharks — in short, by blackguards of every descrip- 
tion, and possibly by an honest man or two, but the 
last is doubtful. This sink of western iniquity was 
grandiloquently called Sumass City, and there were 
three ways of approach to it from Sumass Prairie, 
namely, by the C. P. R. branch line, by a bush road 
a short distance to the east of the line, and through 
the woods. The third way none but a madman or 
a criminal would willingly attempt, having the choice 
of the other two. 

About a month after the events of my last chapter 
occurred, on a beautiful day in the early part of June, 
a man mounted on a piebald cayuse, with a Win- 
chester rifle resting across the pommel of his saddle, 


202 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


rode slowly along the bush road towards Sumass 
City. The rider was a tall, strongly built man, with 
a thin, keen-looking face, of the complexion that 
always goes with red hair, an abundance of which 
he had, covered by a soft felt American slouch hat. 
His lips were thin and cruel in expression ; his eyes, 
of a watery gray-blue color, were set a little too 
close to a prominent and slightly aquiline nose. The 
day was warm, and, being in the shadow of the 
trees, he took his hat off and rode along bareheaded, 
by doing so exhibiting to the passer-by, should he 
encounter one, a certain peculiarity, namely, a 
round patch of white hair, just over the left temple. 

About half way from the prairie to Sumass City, 
the road crossed the U. S. boundary into the State 
of Washington, or Washington Territory, as they 
still continue to call it in the West. Within fifty 
paces of the line, on the Canadian side of it, there is 
a small frame house, in front of it a garden, and 
dividing the garden from the road, a rough snake 
fence. 

Leaning on the fence was a tall, handsome, lean- 
visaged, dark-bearded man, talking to a woman 
who stood at the door of the house, with a baby in 
her arms. 

The man was standing with his back to the road, 
so that, though he must have heard, he could not 
have seen the approaching horseman without turning 
round. 

“Then, in came Dan,” he was saying — his accent 
was refined, his voice soft and pleasing — “in his 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


203 


stocking-feet, so that his wife never heard him, and 
as for Stevens, he was so occupied in vowing eter- 
nal love for her, that he never noticed him either, 
until he was within six feet of the two.” 

“An’ you mean to tell me,” exclaimed the woman 
excitedly, “that that mean, white-livered sneak 
never let on ? ” 

“Never mentioned a syllable.” 

“The dirty beast 1 ” 

By this time the horseman was within twenty feet 
of the man standing by the fence, when he turned, 
and the eyes of the two for an instant met. In the 
glance of the latter there was a good-natured expres- 
sion of lazy indifference, as he turned once more to 
the woman, and continued his conversation. The 
face of the other, on the contrary, betokened for an 
instant a startled recognition. 

He rode on without a word, however, until he 
turned the next bend in the road, when, bringing his 
hand down on his knee with a sounding thwack, he 
exclaimed : 

“ By God ! it’s that devil Sladen. . I must have 
changed considerable in the last ten years, for he 
didn’t know me.” 

“An’ then he struck him? ” inquired the woman, 
while the sound of the piebald’s hoofs grew fainter 
in the distance. 

“ Yes, with the pick-handle, just as Stevens 
turned, one blow. Knocked him senseless, and then 
chucked him out of doors, and left him lying there.” 

“ Mercy on us, did he kill him ? ” 


204 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


Sladen shook his head. “No fear, only stunned 
the beggar; he came to, half an hour later, and 
crawled off.” 

“ He done right. I knowed that Stevens would 
come to grief some day, he was that wild, an’ when 
I heerd he was follering Dan’s wife, I sez to Billy, 
sez I, ‘ I guess it ’ill not be long, Billy, afore Dan gits 
on to that fool Stevens, and, when he does, there ’ill 
be hell to pay, see if there won’t,’ sez I. An’ I was 
right, Mr. Sladen.” 

“You were, Mrs. Briggs, right as usual. I must 
be off now.” He turned to go as he spoke. 

“Hold on, Mr. Sladen, there ain’t no call to be in 
such a mighty hurry. Do you mind the man that 
passed a minute ago ? ” 

Sladen nodded. 

“ He’s a stranger to these parts. I’m thinking. Did 
you ever see him before ? ” 

“ Never,” said Sladen. “Good-day.” He raised 
his hat politely, and turning, walked rapidly away 
towards Sumass City. 

Sumass City is built on a flat, boggy stretch of 
land ; in fact, that part of the West is all either rock, 
mountains, or swamp ; its principal thoroughfare is 
planked, the others are mud-holes, neither more nor 
less, with little islands formed by stumps and roots 
of great pines. Facing one of the principal stores 
in the place is a restaurant, with the sign over the 
door in straggling letters, ‘ ‘ California Dining-Room. ” 
Into this, half an hour after bidding Mrs. Briggs 
good-day, Sladen entered. 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


205 


“How do do ? ” said the proprietor, a greasy, un- 
healthy-looking individual, in appearance a cross 
between a Dutch Yankee and a German Jew. 

Sladen nodded, without replying to the salutation, 
and glanced quickly round the room, as he hung his 
hat upon a wooden pin. At a small table by him- 
self sat the red-haired stranger, who had arrived a 
few minutes earlier. He started on Sladen’s en- 
trance. Sladen, however, took no apparent interest 
in him, seating himself at another table nearer the 
door ; he glanced down the bill of fare, and gave his 
order to a red-complexioned damsel in startling 
attire, who had approached his table, and stood eye- 
ing him from a pair of remarkably handsome, bold, 
black eyes. 

Sladen’s meal consisted of a slice of potted meat, 
some hot cakes, and a pint of lager beer, and he 
finished it just as the stranger finished his. 

The two men walked out together and crossed the 
rdad to the store, where Sladen invested in a corn- 
cob pipe, and the stranger bought some chewing 
tobacco. 

“ How far is it to Finley’s camp, do you know ? ” 
inquired the latter of the shopkeeper. 

“About four miles, I guess.” 

“Which is the best way to get there ? ” 

“ Follow the street down to the cross-loggin’, then 
turn to the left, and down it, till you strike the line ; 
follow it to where the first ‘ skidway ’ crosses, turn 
to your right, and down it, and if you’re reasonable 
lucky and don’t get tangled up with them other 


2o6 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


^skid-ways' — an’ they’re thick as hairs on a dog’s 
back — you’re liable to reach Finley’s, But you’d 
better get some one to show you the way. One o' 
Reilly’s boys’ll show you for a matter of ^ four 
bits:" 

“ Where’ll I find Reilly’s boys ? ” 

“I’ll show you the way.” The speaker was 
Sladen. The stranger for a single moment looked as 
though he might decline the offer. Apparently, 
however, he thought better of it. 

“Thanks,” he said, “ But ain’t I putting you to a 
good sight of bother ? ” 

“ Not at all, not at all,” was the reply. “ I haven’t 
anything to do this afternoon, and, moreover, 1 in- 
tended goin’ to Finley’s myself.” 

“ You’re a stranger in these parts,” said the store- 
keeper, who possessed in an enormous degree all 
the inquisitiveness and ill-breeding of that class of 
Americans. 

“ I am,” was the reply. 

“ Coin’ to stay ? ” 

A shrug of the shoulders. 

‘ ‘ Where did ye come from ? ” 

“ Wyoming.” 

“ Raised there ? ” 

“ Were you ? ” turning on him with a lightning 
glance ; then, without waiting a reply, he spoke to 
Sladen, “ We may as well be movin’ if you’re ready, 
mister,” and together they left the store. 

“Short, almighty short,” murmured the store- 
keeper sadly, turning leisurely to another customer. 


TO BEDLAM AND BACA' 


207 

“ You had better put up your horse,” said Sladen 
to his companion, “vve will go more quickly on 
foot, the roads are so infernally bad.” 

“ Albright, but where can I leave him?” 

Sladen accordingly showed him the stables, and 
twenty minutes later they were picking their way 
between stumps and mud-holes along the streets, so 
styled by courtesy. 

There was little said between the two till they 
had left the line and were walking along the “skid- 
way. ” Then the stranger spoke. 

“ Walking’s dry work, partner, where can I get a 
drink?” he said. 

“ We will pass aspring in a few minutes,” Sladen 
replied. 

“What’s your opinion of the city?” asked the 
stranger a moment later. 

“ They’re boomwg it just now.” 

“ I guessed as much. I reckon it’ll be like most 
along the coast. ” 

“ Exactly ; a junction and a few miles of farming 
land won’t make a town, any more than a harbor 
where there’s no inducement for shipping, and a 
railway station will — more than that is wanted.” 

The stranger nodded. “That reminds me of a 
yarn I heard down Oregon way. It was in the 
northern part where the line runs through one of the 
most God-forsaken bits of waste land I ever set eyes 
on. Can’t raise a blessed thing but cactus to save 
your immortal soul, but it’s a pure garden for that. A 
stranger got off at alittle way station ; his eyes, nose, 


2o8 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


an’ ears were chuck full o’ fine sand, an’ maybe that 
made him feel a bit down on his luck, seein’ as he 
weren’t accustomed to luxuries o’ the kind. The 
agent, who’d lived therefor years breathin’ sand, and 
somehow grew fascinated with the life, sidled up to 
him. ‘Fine growin’ weather,’ he said. The ther- 
mometer, by the way, was about 102 in the shade, 
and the near cactuses looked twice their size in the 
quiverin’ heat. 

“ ‘ Can’t see much to grow,’ sez the stranger surly 
like. ‘Thar ain’t much,’ sez the agent, ‘but that 
ain’t the fault o’ the weather.’ ‘ No,’ sez the other, 
coughin’. ‘ You don’t seem took with the place,’ 
sez the agent, shifting his chew. ‘I ain’t,’ sez the 
other, a-tryin’ to pick a little real estate out o’ his 
eyes. ‘ I ain’t sayin’ the place is perfect, it has its 
wants like other places; it ain’t heaven.’ ‘What 
does it want ? ’ sez that other, sarcastic like. ‘ A 
little water and a little good society,’ sez the agent, 
kind o’ sadly, for he seen the other weren’t struck all 
o’ a heap with the town, and it pained him. ‘ That’s 
all hell wants,’ sez the other, walkin’ off.” 

Sladen laughed. “ This place also has its wants, 
particularly one which he doesn’t know of yet," he 
said. 

They had reached the spring now ; the stranger 
knelt, and took a long drink ere replying. Sladen 
meantime seated himself and did an odd thing while 
the other man’s back was turned : he took from his 
hip-pocket a revolver, laid the hand holding it upon 
his knee then taking his hat off, which was the 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


209 

ordinary broad-brimmed American felt, covered both 
hand and weapon up with it, and when the other 
turned to him he was languidly mopping the per- 
spiration from his forehead with a red cotton hand- 
kerchief in his left. 

The stranger seated himself on a log about ten feet 
distant. 

“ And what is that ? ” said he. 

“The ridding of the West of one of the worst curs, 
liars, and cowards that ever had the sense to leave 
it, and the folly to return,” was the reply, spoken in 
the gentlest voice imaginable, with a smile bright as 
August lightning. A curious look came into the 
stranger’s face ; his lips closed in a thin pale line. 
He answered in a hard tone : 

“A liar perhaps, but, by God! neither cur nor 
coward, Mr. Sladen.” 

Sladen, beyond that same awful smile which lit up 
his keen dark eyes, showed no surprise at the man’s 
addressing him by name. 

“I repeat it, a coward, a damnable coward,” in 
the same gentle voice. “Wait,” he said, holding up 
his hand as the other began to speak. “You told 
your story ; it’s my turn now. In 1881, in the north- 
ern part of this state ” 

“ At Sandy Bottom, to be accurate, as the noos- 
papers say,” remarked the other, with a wicked 
grin. 

“ Thank you, at Sandy Bottom, my step-brother, 
Arthur Sladen, was mining with one Jake Williams. 
They were partners for a year, and in that time 

14 


210 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


made some four thousand dollars apiece, — they did 
well.” 

‘ ‘ Darned well ! ” remarked the other. “ I mind the 
time. ” 

“ Jake Williams murdered my brother — for what ? 
For four thousand dollars in gold dust.” 

“ I’ve known men murdered for less,” said the 
other, breaking a twig from a bush, and reflectively 
chewing it. 

“ Where did he go then ? ” 

“ To Montana, where he took ill.” 

“ But did not die ? ” 

“ I guess not.” 

“ Blackguards like Williams die hard.” 

“ Now, partner, you’re talking ; but hold on: if you 
knew all this, why didn’t you hang him ? ” 

“ What evidence had I ? ” 

“ Jake Williams was too clever for you.” He 
langhed scornfully. 

“ I don’t think so,” with the same bright smile. 
“ Perhaps you know Sandy Bottom? ” 

“Perhaps, I do.” 

The two men were looking steadily into each 
other’s eyes now. 

“ You were at Sandy Bottom at the time ? ” 

‘ ‘ I was. ” 

“You knew Arthur Sladen ? ” 

“Well, I guess so.” 

“You admit that Jake Williams shot him ? ” 

“I do.” 

“Then he went abroad?” 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


2i I 


“He did.” 

“I believe he went to ” 

“ England. ” 

“Where, doubtless, he committed other crimes?” 
“I reckon he might 'ave.” 

“ And then ? ” 

“To Australia, where his luck was hellish bad, 
then back to London, — curse you ! ” 

“And why back to London ? ” 

“God knows ! — he had a nat’ral aptitood for gettin’ 
into messes ; too sentimental for his trade, a over- 
powerin’ desire to look on old scenes, I guess ; can’t 
make it out no other way. Oh, his luck was as bad 
as you yourself could have wished it, — curse you ! ” 
He seemed to feel a peculiar satisfaction in mak- 
ing his enemy his confidant. There was silence for 
a few moments. The two men sat looking at each 
other. Then Sladen spoke again : 

“ He was a vile coward and hateful murderer ! ” 
“By God, he was no coward.” 

“ Is that all you have to say, Jake Williams? ” 

“I’ll speak, by God, till my tongue rots in defence 
of my courage ; and act, too. And now. Mister 
Sladen, what will you do, we are here man to man ? ” 
“Thank God, we are,” still in the same quiet, 
level tones. “What will Ido?” He rose to his 
feet as he spoke, threw his hat to the ground, and 
deliberately cocked his revolver. “This ; as justice 
in the United States costs too much for my purse, I 
will take the law into my own hands.” He raised 
his revolver as he spoke. 


212 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


“Stop!” cried Williams. Sladen lowered his 
weapon. 

“ I want to ask you one question.” 

Sladen nodded. 

“When you were leanin’ agen the fence talkin' 
to that woman, did you know me when you 
looked up ? ” 

‘ ‘ I did, ” was the reply. 

“You always were the coolest devil west, but I 
didn't take you to be as smart as that.” With a 
sudden, quick movement, he sprang to his feet ; like 
lightning his hand flew to his pocket. Sladen fired, 
Williams staggered, a low, sobbing cry broke from 
his lips, but he did not fall. For a second the smoke 
of the discharge hung between the two. It cleared. 
For one second there was silence. Both with 
levelled weapons faced each other, and two reports 
rang out like one 1 

Williams turned half round and fell without 
a moan, with a bullet through his brain. Sladen 
sank slowly to the ground, and half lying, half sitting, 
with his back against a log, remained still but for his 
heavy, labored breathing. 

Slowly the lagging hours dragged on. Lower, 
lower sank the sun, the shadows grew deeper. A 
cock-of-the-woods flew by with jerky flight, uttering 
its harsh cry. A squirrel jumped on a stump hard 
by, looked on the dying and the dead, screamed piti- 
lessly, and fled away. 

In a blaze of amber and of gold the sun sank. The 
shadows of tall pines mingled, and darkness, like a 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


213 


cloak, fell upon the wilderness. The pure white 
stars came out to look upon the world. Sladen’s 
head fell heavily forward upon his breast. His soul 
had fled to answer before the Judge of all for that 
high-handed deed. 

Thus fell Jake Williams, alias Mitchell, alias 
Tompkins, Sir Arthur Wortley’s clever valet. 


214 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


CHAPTER X. 

Meanwhile, where is my commonplace hero ? The 
poor silly man. Where heroes, commonplace or 
otherwise, insist upon getting at least once in a life- 
time. Where you have been, kind, elderly reader ! 
doubtless, before you were so very particular about 
your dinner. Before your waistcoat was quite so 
expansive as it is now, my dear sir ! or your hair 
quite so thin. Where in all probability you are now, 
my pretty dear ! or imagine yourself to be. In a 
fool’s paradise, to be sure. 

Oh, delicious youth ! oh, illusive springtime ! what 
would we not all give to return to you How gladly 
would we exchange our worldly knowledge (some 
of it, my dear) for a little of your worldly igno- 
rance. There were giants in those days ; yes, sweet 
innocence ! and angels, too, and upon my word of 
honor, — though the cynical will laugh loudly at the 
idea, — I verily believe there are angels still. 

And so believed Sir Arthur. But that young man’s 
opinion is not worth the breath expended in giving 
it utterance, for the simple reason that he is hope- 
lessly, idiotically, madly in love. Unhappy, happy 
young man ! He is going to make a name for him- 
self, oh, yes. He will get into Parliament, to be 
sure. Washington Irving says idle young men fall 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


215 

into one of two evils, drink or politics, very likely 
both. Then why in the name of common-sense 
should not love-sick fools take to the latter.? When 
men are free to choose between two evils they gen- 
erally hit upon the greater. 

He brings her flowers every other day, the extrav- 
agant donkey ! His happiness depends upon a smile, 
a frown. Oh, misery ! The enchanting little witch 
doesn’t know her own mind for ten minutes at a 
time, and changes it a dozen times a day. He sees 
her three times a week. 

On Tuesday she is enthusiastic about some social 
lion she has met the day before. He is grand, he is 
magnificent, he improvises delightfully, he was 
pleased to remark to Mrs So-and-so, who told IMiss 
Somebody, who told me, that he would like to know 
Miss Astley better. That Miss Astley’s expression 
was sorrowful ; that Miss Astley’s smile was linger- 
ingly sweet. 

“Confounded impudent dancing-master!” ex- 
claims Sir Arthur. 

“ You don’t like him because he writes the sweet- 
est verses in the world and you can’t.” 

“Nonsensical, maudlin drivel, about sunsets and 
flowers.” 

“You’re narrow-minded.” 

“ I narrow-minded .? ” 

“ Yes, yes, yes, you narrow-minded.” She stamps 
her little foot. “ You think because a man can’t ride, 
can’t shoot, isn’t brutally healthy, he isn’t fit to speak 
to.” 


2i6 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


Silence. 

“ He’s very clever,” with a far-away glance. “ I 
do admire clever men.” 

Silence. 

“Oh, if you’re going to sit there without saying a 
word, with a great long face, you had better go 
home.” 

‘ ‘ What shall I say ? ” 

“ ‘ What shall I say ? ’ Heavens ! how entertaining ! 
Talk, talk, talk, — for pity’s sake be amusing, or get 
away, and don’t come near me any more.” 

“ I’ve a good mind to take you at your word,” 
with intense gloom. 

“Oh, lovely, lovely! The silly man is actually 
going to leave me. ” She claps her hands. Then she 
forgets all about his coming departure. 

“ Let me tell you something more about my lion,” 
she says. * 

“ Oh, bother your lion 1” 

“I won’t; he’s nice.” 

Exit Sir Arthur shortly afterwards, madly jealous, 
vowing vengeance, praying heaven that he may 
meet the lion, and that the lion will be rude to him, 
so that he may punch the lion’s head in good old 
English fashion. 

Friday evening. The witch is in a heavenly 
humour ; Sir Arthur is entranced. She allows him 
to draw his chair one inch nearer hers than she ever 
did before. She informs him that she met the lion 
that very afternoon, that he would insist upon recit- 
ing some of his own poetry to her, that she thought 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


217 

the verses silly and the poet sillier, that she does 
not believe him to be a lion at all, but only a great 
donkey whom the ladies have covered in a lion’s skin 
and taught to roar, that she cannot endure men who 
either write or recite poetry, that if Sir Arther ever 
does such a thing he must never, never, never dare 
to speak to her again. 

“I vow I will not,” exclaims that young man 
ecstatically. She smiles angelically. (N. B. — He 
couldn’t, and she knows it. ) 

“ You’ve changed your mind about that gentle- 
man,” says he. 

“What 's the good of a mind of your own, if you 
can’t change it ? ” says she. 

“ To be sure,” says he. 

“I’m a goose,” says she. 

“An angel, not a goose.” says he, with his soul 
in. his eyes. 

She flushes, and looks lovelier than ever, if it were 
possible. 

“ If you’re going to be silly you must go home,” 
says she, “and when I say I am a goose, I am a 
goose, so there ! ” 

“ When she won’t, she won’t and naught can mend it, 

And when she will, she will, and there’s an end t’ it,” * 

hummed Sir Arthur. 

“ Perhaps you think yourself clever, sir? ” says she. 

* These two lines, correctly quoted, are : 

“ For if she will, she will, you may depend on ’t ; 

And if she won’t, she won’t; so there’s an end on ’t.” 


2i8 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


“I was not thinking of myself, madam,” says he 
with an eloquent glance, 

“ Now you must go home at once, for you are 
getting silly,” says she. But she smiled as she said 
it, and home went Sir Arthur happy. 

Sunday afternoon. Appearances were decidedly 
favorable. She looked as though she might be 
heavenly sweet again. Two days in succession ? — 
wonders will never cease. Had Sir Arthur been a 
little less blinded by his feelings he would have seen 
at a single glance that she required delicate handling. 
But no ; the stupid fellow was so overcome by joy at 
such unexpected sweetness, that he must needs blun- 
der. Now if there was one person in the world the 
depth of whose character he believed he had 
sounded and understood, that person was Miss 
Pauline Astley. As luck would have it, my absurd 
hero never made a more gigantic mistake in his life. 
I verily believe there never was a man born into the 
world who could understand any woman, least of 
all the woman he loved. The wisest of all men, 
Shakespeare, says : 

“ O most delicate fiend ! 

Who is it can read a woman ? ” 

and he never said anything wiser. 

Sir Arthur had studied Miss Pauline carefully ; that 
is to say, he had gazed admiringly at her on every 
possible occasion. Her good qualities were magni- 
fied in his eyes ; her bad ones, if she possessed any, 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


219 


and it is possible she may have, he completely 
overlooked. From observation and study of her 
character Sir Arthur was clear on two heads, namely : 

No I. — That she hated flattery. Stupid! That she 
might have his, is possible, for he laid it on with a 
trowel. Properly administered, was there ever a 
woman yet who couldn’t swallow it wholesale ? 

No. 2. — That her taste was perfect, particularly 
in hats. Possibly : it isn’t worth troubling about. 

Sir Arthur seated himself, gazed admiringly at her, 
and smiled. Item : she had on a new dress. 

Convinced of her hatred of flattery, he determined 
to score a point, eyed her critically, and began : 

“ New dress ! What extravagance ! ” 

“Yes, it’s quite a dream in its way.” 

Anybody but an utter noodle could have seen she 
was pleased with it herself, and would have acted 
accordingly. 

“It’s very pretty indeed, but I don’t care so much 
about the upper part of the dream.” 

“ My tea jacket I ” Her dark eyes flashed, and her 
right foot began to tap the carpet. Sir Arthur felt 
uncomfortable, made a desperate rally, and tried to 
hide his discomfiture with a laugh and brazen it 
out. 

“ Is it a tea jacket 1 ” 

“ Heavens I ” Up go her eyes to the ceiling. 

“ I don’t like it.” 

“Barbarian 1 ” 

“Am I to be polite or truthful ? ” 

“ Polite always.” 


220 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


“Oh, Miss Pauline.” 

“ Oh, Sir Arthur ! ” 

“ I thought you detested flattery ? ” 

“ I love it.” 

“ I believe you are vain.” 

“What insight! Have you only just discovered 
it?” 

“I had hoped otherwise.” 

“Mercy on us, how foolish some men are 1 ” 
Silence. 

“Ethel Bentley copied my tea jacket, but it 
doesn’t suit her : she looks a fright. ” 

Silence. 

“ Oh, the entertaining man ! Another long face.” 
“ Why are you so cruel ? ” 

“ I cruel, and I allow you to see me ? ” 

“You are an angel ! ” 

“ Don't you dare to make silly speeches to me, 
sir. ” 

“You said you loved flattery.” 

“ I hate it.” 

“You’ve changed your mind again.” 

“And suppose I have, sir ; it’s my own.” 

“Dear me, I wish I knew what to think or do,” 
in a distracted tone of voice. 

“You’re stupid to-day. Go home.” 

“ Oh, Miss Pauline 1 ” 

Miss Pauline pulls one of Sir Arthur’s roses to 
pieces and sings : 

“ Void r instant supreme : 

L’instant de nos adieux I” 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK'. 


221 


“ Must I really go home?” The great goose is 
in the very depths of woe. 

She nods, stops singing, and whistles : 



tJ 

“Yes, go,” says she. “ I hate you to-day." 
Sir Arthur rises to his feet. 


“ Good-bye,” he says, and holds out his hand. 
Miss Pauline makes a movement as though to take 
it, then checks herself. 

“ No,” says she, “I don’t think I’ll shake hands 
with you to-day.” 

“ Why not ? ” with considerable surprise. 

“ Oh, just for a change,” says the witch. 

Sir Arthur looks hurt. 

“Oh, you’re such a goose,” says she ; “you shake 
hands so, you bow so ” (imitating him). “ Go home, 
stupid. ” 

“ When may I come and see you again ? ” 

“I don’t know. Go home, go home, go home.” 

“ I’ll come to-morrow ? ” 

“ Don’t you dare. Go home.” 

“ The day after ? ” 

“ Oh, I suppose so. Go home.” 

Exit Sir Arthur, distracted, miserable. Was there 
ever such a donkey ? 

Yet this exasperating creature could be sweet, 
loving, divinely gentle if she liked. Clever too she 
was, clever as she could be, and she sang like a 
nightingale ! Men have made fools of themselves 


222 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


over women who couldn’t hold a candle to this one 
in any way. So, perhaps, Sir Arthur’s infatuation 
isn’t so extraordinary after all. 

The summer passed away ; my hero was jealous, 
happy, distracted, by turns. 

Then he had a magnificent row with her. She 
told him never to come near her again, and he vowed 
he’d take her at her word, and accordingly went 
away, and the second day he wrote and asked to be 
forgiven. 

It was she who ought to have asked forgiveness. 

The third day he called. Her high mightiness 
condescended to be sweet. 

Then Sir Arthur — wise donkey that he was — lost his 
head perhaps a little, for her sweetness was intoxicat- 
ing. 

“ I wish I were great, and famous, and clever,” 
said he. 

“ Why } ” said she. 

“ Because then I would tell you I loved you,” 
said he; “as it is, I know you can never love a 
great goose like me.” 

He looked at her mighty earnestly as he said this, 
but her head was bowed so that he could not see 
her face, but could only sit in hope and fear for a 
few moments. 

Then she looked up flushing, lovely as a summer 
morning, with a radiant light in her dark eyes, and 
on her sweet lips a radiant smile. 

“ I think I could love a great goose, — a little,” 
said she. 


TO BEDLAM AND BACK. 


223 


“My angel ! ” 

“ If he were nice,” said she. 

“ I am nice, dear Pauline.” 

“ Conceited thing ! ” 

“ You must love me a little, you know.” The 
great goose took one of her pretty white hands and 
kissed it, which proves him not to have been such a 
great goose after all. 

“Must I?” says she, with the same entrancing 
smile, but she did not withdraw her pretty hand. 

“ Yes, Pauline, I think you must, my dearest.” 

“ But I can't make up my mind while you are 
holding my hand, sir.” 

“ Then I will make it up for you, my angel.” 

“ But what will it be when it is made up, since 
you are so kind ? ” 

“ That Beauty must love her great stupid Beast.” 

“ If Beauty must, she must, I suppose,” says she, 
and the witch gave him her other white hand, and 
a smile still more ravishingly sweet than any she 
had ever yet bestowed upon him. 

****** 

After this the days as they passed were neither 
noted nor numbered by Sir Arthur, for in heaven, I 
am told, time is not reckoned ; it is, as it should be, 
made for the angels, and not the angels for time ! 


THE END. 




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